


Back to Beacon Hills

by JanaNa



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Army, Dark, Death, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Family Angst, Family Dynamics, Family Everything, Family History, Gay Stiles, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Injury Recovery, M/M, Marriage, Minor Character Death, Nightmares, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Content, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Soldier Derek, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Veterinarian Scott, Violence, temporary impotence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-04 08:27:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 71,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1772383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JanaNa/pseuds/JanaNa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tragedy alienates Derek from his family and drives him away from Beacon Hills and into the arms of the U.S. Army, where he embraces military life with a carefully masked self-destructive intensity. He serves five faithful years, only to be honorably discharged after a devastating wound leaves him helpless and simmering in angry regret and a bitter self-hatred that's quick on its way to consuming him alive.</p><p>Stiles leaves Beacon Hills the moment he turns eighteen; shunned by his family and left with nothing but the sting of rejection, Stiles promises himself he will never go back. Even Scott, who has been by Stiles' side through thick and thin, can't manage to help Stiles heal the twisted wounds the memory of Beacon Hills keeps fresh.</p><p>Nearly ten years after they make their getaways, they find themselves thrust back into the world of Beacon Hills, surrounded by agonizing reminders of the past, unresolved tensions, resentful families, and uncertain hopes for a future that seems far away.</p><p>They meet again mostly by accident, and as they once more traverse the pain and sorrow dredged up in the dark corners of their hometown, they start to realize that maybe Beacon Hills can still mark a new beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, there are a few things that might be important to note before beginning:
> 
> Werewolves are (unfortunately) not a thing in this fic. :( However, I've kept some werewolf-esque qualities because of Derek's personality (i.e. lots of growling, tolerance for hot/cold weather, possessiveness, etc.)
> 
> Derek and Stiles (and everyone else, i.e. Scott) have _mostly_ non-canon families (there was no Hale House fire, Laura is still alive, and there is a Mr. and Mrs. Hale...and maybe Uncle Peter...I'm not sure yet.).
> 
> Stiles' family is rather cruel in this fic, just a heads up... Also, Stiles has an older brother, but he turns out ok. So that's good.
> 
> If you're easily upset by violence, excessive death (not just in combat), war, explicit language, homophobic behavior/language, indirect implications/references to suicide, very dark feels, and general angst, this may not be the fic for you, but I promise it has a happy ending. Eventually.
> 
> Lastly, I've tried to be as accurate as possible with the warfare/combat and the PTSD and everything, but I'm no expert. Just in advance, I don't mean to potentially offend anyone and I apologize for any mistakes.
> 
> Comments are much loved! Let me know what you think, I appreciate it! :)
> 
> Thanks for checking it out!

# PROLOGUE

The Windy City is nothing like the sunny glades of California, and Stiles is thankful for that, in a way. Sure, he misses wearing sunglasses in ninety-plus degree weather and could do without the constant traffic and smog of the inner city, but Chicago isn't Beacon Hills, and that's more than enough for him. Over the past couple of years, Stiles has made a new life for himself working alongside Scott, now a veterinarian, and helping out Allison market her artwork; the three are the best of friends, and while that will always remain true, Stiles realizes there are certain changes to their friendship that are inevitable: Allison and Scott are now expecting their first child and have decided to tie the knot. The only thing is, they don't want to stay in Chicago to raise their baby and live happily ever after... Stiles can't help but feel a little bit left in the dust, but keeping up with them may mean following them back to Beacon Hills, which the very thought of makes him want to puke.

Currently, Stiles is marooned in a particularly uninspired nightclub (Isaac's idea) in order to immortalize Scott's last days as a "free man", although everyone would agree that Scott hasn't been "free" since the beginning of the tenth grade. The nightclub is dark and pulsing with the sound of techno; multicolored strobe lights are streaking across the dense crowd of people, their bodies grinding and swaying, and the bar at the back is packed with barely-legal kids already way too drunk. It’s a club much like any other in the city, and Stiles has seen it all a million times before; he’s standing on a veranda, overlooking the dance floor below, and nursing his second beer. He doesn’t particularly want to be here, too aware that he’s just turned twenty-six and Isaac has managed to drag their group to a nightclub so painfully…juvenile. Speaking of their group, Stiles sees Scott making his way over after breaking away from Boyd, Isaac, and Jackson, who are busy getting plastered on a steady flow of whiskey and losing money over cards.

“Isaac always had terrible taste in night life.” Stiles says to Scott over the constant thrum of noise and music. Scott is still grinning from ear to ear as he leans forward into Stiles’ space,

“What?”

“Shouldn’t you get home to your soon-to-be- _wife?_ ” Stiles says louder and Scott only smiles wider; he purposely shoulder checks Stiles as he moves to let a frat boy and his wasted girlfriend by,

“I know that’s not what you said the first time, Stiles.” Scott laughs, “You’re not having fun? Here, have another beer.” Scott thrusts a fresh Heineken into Stiles’ hand and raises his own; Stiles grins at his best friend, always amazed by the man’s annoying tenacity, and lifts his beer so the two bottle necks clink together,

“Cheers, man.” Scott murmurs, and it’s just barely audible over the _thump thump_ of the bass,

“Cheers.” Stiles grins, and the two nearly swallow down half their beers in one go. When Stiles pulls his bottle away, he lets out a loud, content sigh, the alcohol a warm tingle low in his belly. He’s sure he’s well on his way to a good buzz by the time Scott corrals him into a quieter corner a few minutes later, but even the pleasant alcohol-induced fuzziness isn’t enough to prepare Stiles for the serious conversation Scott seems set on initiating,

“Stiles.” Scott begins, his gaze steady and entreating, “Have you thought about what I asked?” And Stiles rolls his eyes in frustration,

“I don’t think you and I are drunk enough for this conversation—”

“Stiles!”

“—Besides! You want to talk about this _here? Now?_ ” Stiles flails his arm out to motion at the too-big crowd, and the headache-inducing noise, and the annoying lights, _all of it_.

“Yeah! Here and now!” Scott exclaims, exasperated, “Allison and I leave the _day_ after _tomorrow!_ ” He all but yells, and Stiles stares at him, irritated and torn. Scott hates to see the way Stiles looks physically pained by the conversation, but he can’t let it drop like this,

“It’s my _wedding_ , Stiles.” Scott implores, “And you’ve been my best friend since the moment we met in the sandbox at the age of _four!_ You have to be at my wedding!” Stiles gives him a weak grin,

“Dick move, man, pulling out the best friends forever card…” He says with little heat, and Scott can’t help but chuckle. They’re quiet for a very long moment, just the beat of the music ringing in their ears and the soft roar of a thousand conversations sounding like static around them.

“I want to be at your wedding, Scott!" Stiles assures him, but there's a persistent downturn to his lips, a pained expression, "But you know what you’re asking also includes the one thing on the face of the planet I absolutely _do not_ want to do, right? I swore I’d never set foot in that fucking hellhole again…” Stiles continues, and his voice is so low and unsteady Scott almost doesn’t hear him. Scott moves to stand in front of Stiles and places his hands on the other man’s shoulders, gripping them tight and giving them a shake.

“I know.” He says earnestly, “I know, Stiles. And I know how painful it’ll be for you, but not having you at my goddamn wedding would be like…not having Allison show up!” Stiles looks at him as if he’s grown two heads, but laughs,

“Jesus, you’re such a fucking sap, McCall…”

“So, is that a _yes_ , or what?!” Scott nearly shouts, excited,

“...Come on, man.” Stiles complains, still hesitant, and Scott can see he’s closing up again, already looking for a way out, “Just enjoy your fucking stag night, alright.” Stiles begs, but Scott just shakes his head in determination, his arm coming out to snake tightly around Stiles’ shoulder, keeping him trapped by his side,

“And tell me how the hell I’m supposed to do that when my best man won’t be at my wedding?” He demands, ramping up the guilt trip with big, brown puppy-dog eyes. Stiles glares menacingly at him,

“Don’t fucking try that, Scott.” He snaps, and stares angrily out over the dance floor again. Suddenly he turns his glare back on Scott,

“ _Best man_ , huh? If I’m your best man, why didn’t you let me choose tonight’s venue?” He pouts, “It would’ve been a hell of a lot better than this.”

“Isaac wanted to feel involved, and it’s not so bad.”

“You have terribly low standards.”

“Maybe, but I set the bar pretty high for my best man. And that’s why _only you_ can be my best man, Stiles, _only you_.” He says, being absurdly serious. Stiles snorts,

“God, are you sure you’ve already popped the question to Allison? Because it sounds like you just proposed to me.” Scott laughs so hard tears come to his eyes, but then he trains his face into mock seriousness, takes Stiles’ hand in both his own, and falls to one knee,

“Stiles Stilinski, will you _please_ come back to Beacon Hills to be the best man at my wedding?”

# ▲▼▲▼▲▼

Fort Worth, Texas, is exceptionally humid this time of year, and the cookie-cutter homes all lined up in the military housing community are already baking under the morning sun. However, inside the single-story house on the corner of 16th and Lincoln, the AC is turned on high, its steady hum a constant in the back of Derek's mind. Derek is usually never bothered by the heat or the cold, but there are goosebumps on the skin of his arms, and he curses the poor circulation the weeks of bed rest have subjected his body to. He's too lazy to get up to turn the AC off; in fact, it's been getting increasingly hard to climb over the mental barriers that prevent him from getting up to do even the simplest of things these days.

Right now, Derek sits in the dark bedroom with his fists clenched in the bedspread and his gaze trained gloomily somewhere on the floor; there are dark circles under his eyes from too many nightmares and even more sleepless nights. He doesn’t even blink as Sarah comes into the bedroom and walks over to shut the AC off. She glances back at him, concern creasing her smooth features, and moves to the window to pull up the blinds and let the harsh morning light in.

“Derek…” She says, and her tone of voice is one of long-suffering; it’s sympathetic, but worn down, as if she’s said his name like that a million times before. “Hon, we still have to get ready…” She goes to his side and sits beside him; she glances back at the half packed suitcase lying forgotten on the bed and sighs. Derek closes his eyes and rubs a hand over his face, immensely tired,

“I know.” He says, “I’m getting there.”

“We were supposed to leave half an hour ago…We’ll miss our train now.”

“I’ll drive.” He says resolutely, and Sarah looks torn. She rubs a hand down his forearm and takes his hand,

“We’ve talked about this,” She says softly, “…You shouldn’t be driving yet. The doctors—”

“ _Fuck_ the doctors.” Derek growls bitterly and feels a strange, violent anger welling up in his entire being, like a tide coming in too fast. He pulls his hand out of her grasp and struggles to stand, a sharp pain blossoming in his chest and taking his breath away. Sarah shoots up next to him, only slightly put off by his hostile behavior; she hovers over his shoulder and tries to reach out to steady him, but he refuses her help,

“I’ll drive then.” Sarah says and gives up trying to help him get around. She goes over to the dresser to pack up the rest of their things. Derek leans against the wall, his eyes squeezed shut, his breath shallow but steady.

“I can drive.” He says again, and Sarah turns on him, the irritation simmering beneath her calm façade finally breaking through,

“No, Derek.” She snaps, “You can’t.”

“I’m not a fucking invalid!” He shouts, and the effort makes his chest constrict, the pain excruciating. Sarah looks incredulous,

“Yes you are! Derek, you got _shot_ in the _chest!_ ” She exclaims, looking at him like he’s crazy. He glares at her, and she notices he’s nearly shaking with rage,

“Yes. I got _shot_. But I’m not fucking _useless!_ I’m not _dead!_ ” He seethes, “For fuck’s sake! Let me _do_ something!” He snarls and Sarah jumps as his fist collides with the wall; Derek’s knuckles crack painfully, but he doesn’t so much as wince.

“Well, I asked you to pack the goddamn suitcase!” Sarah shoots back, angrily throwing a wadded up t-shirt into the half-packed piece of luggage. She stares furiously at him, all the while thinking how there are only so many months she can handle Derek like this. Derek’s breathing is becoming labored as he fixes her with a fierce scowl,

“Don’t fucking start.” He growls, “ _You’re_ the one who wants to go back. Not me!” He spits vehemently and Sarah takes a shaky breath, close to tears.

“There’s nothing left for us here!” She cries, “There’s nothing left for _you here_ , Derek! Can’t you see that?” She regrets her words the moment they escape her lips. The anger slips abruptly from Derek’s face, only to be replaced by icy surprise; slowly the rage and shame comes back, ten fold, and Derek’s jaw is clenched so tight Sarah thinks it might shatter. Sarah has never gone so far as to suggest Derek might never return to service; she knows he wants that more than anything, but she also knows that it will never happen. She’s indulged the part of him that wants to deny the severity of his injury, but to so blatantly and suddenly throw the reality of it in his face is undeniably cruel. She lets out a frustrated, sad groan, and tears slide down her cheeks as she stares at Derek pleadingly,

“Baby, _please,_ ” she whispers, “you know it’s true…” She wipes uselessly at her tears,

“This will be good for both of us… You’ll get a fresh start, and you’ll reconnect with friends who care about you…” She implores, but he still looks like an unpredictable, cornered animal, and his boiling anger does everything but dissipate, “...You’ll get to see your parents again.” She tries desperately, “They’ve been so worried about you—”

Derek curses and in the blink of an eye swoops up the digital clock on the nightstand nearby and smashes it into a million pieces against the floor. Sarah lets out a startled gasp, and Derek growls furiously,

“I don’t want a fresh start, and I sure as hell don’t want to see any of those goddamn people, Sarah! What the fuck have any of them done for me?” He demands, staring her down, “ _Nothing!_ That’s what they’ve done! Absolutely _nothing!_ And I don’t owe them a fucking thing!” He nearly lets out a sob, but manages to keep it at bay,

“I can’t go back there…” His voice cracks, “especially like… _this!_ ” He snaps, motioning to himself in disgust. He bites his bottom lip and stares hard at the floor in a way that unnerves Sarah; it takes a moment before she realizes why: Derek Hale is trying his damnedest not to cry. She’s never seen him cry before, and her heart wrenches painfully; she feels the sudden urge to take this big, mulish, angry man into her arms and tell him she loves him. In his complete resentment and anger, Sarah recognizes a deep pain under Derek’s carefully maintained veneer; she sees it’s a pain so strong and profound it couldn’t possibly be caused by any physical injury.

The desperate exasperation and bitterness rolling off of Derek in waves is only amplified when he goes to lace his fingers behind his head in frustration and finds he can’t lift his left arm that high without buckling over in extraordinary pain. He bares his teeth in an irritated and miserable grimace and paces anxiously back and forth,

“I don’t want them to see me like this.” He suddenly whispers hoarsely, and Sarah looks taken aback, surprised by such a vulnerable and intimate piece of information.

“I don’t want them to see me after all these years as an incompetent, worthless _fuck_ with nothing to show but a damn bullet wound to the chest!” He cries, kicking vehemently at the dresser. Sarah shakes her head and covers her mouth with a trembling hand, shocked by the deep anguish and sorrow she finally sees so clearly in him.

“Baby, no…” She tries to say soothingly, her voice wavering and thick with tears, “You have so much to show for yourself! You saved those men’s lives! There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Derek, you got an _honorable_ discharge!” She pleads, but he shakes his head and laughs scornfully at this,

“Honorable discharge.” He repeats, as if the words are poison in his mouth,

_“I would’ve rather fucking died!”_

He bellows at the top of his voice, and Sarah stares at him incredulously, horrified that he would say such a thing. Suddenly Derek grips the fabric of his shirt, right over the left side of his chest, and gasps. He leans over to try to alleviate some of the pain, but there’s nothing to support his weight; ever faithful, Sarah is immediately by his side, leading him back over to the bed. She whispers comfortingly in his ear and tells him to sit down again, all of her previous anger gone in a second. Sarah collapses by his side, and the two sit in complete silence for a long time.

“Want a pain killer?” She finally asks, her words sounding exhausted but soft.

“No.” Derek replies, still angry but subdued by the piercing ache in his chest. He takes a deep, steadying breath and glances over at Sarah, his gaze incredibly weary. He reaches over to take her hand, and she can’t help but give him a small smile,

“Stubborn bastard.” She says affectionately, and a slight smirk graces Derek’s lips.

“Learned from the best.” He mumbles and winks at her half-heartedly; she leans her head against his shoulder, careful not to put too much pressure on it. She runs her hand up and down his arm, choosing her next words carefully,

“Baby, it’s time.” She says, her voice bone-tired in a way she never thought could be possible. Derek stares at her in the reflection of the closet mirrors, his look aggravated but resigned. Sarah nods slowly against his shoulder and says again,

“It’s time to go back to Beacon Hills.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As they drive through Beacon Hills, Scott, Allison, and Stiles share fond childhood memories, deftly avoid any painful ones, and finally meet up with Scott's parents who eagerly welcome them with open arms.
> 
> Stiles finds that, despite everything, there's a small part of himself that has missed Beacon Hills...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos and comments! :)
> 
> The descriptions of Beacon Hills will be largely non-canon, except for a few significant landmarks, so please don't expect it to be the same Beacon Hills you are familiar with on the show.
> 
> The folks of Beacon Hills and other minor characters will mostly be made up as well.
> 
> This chapter has no particular warnings; think of it as a bit of set-up for context (childhood shenanigans, neighbors, parents...etc.)
> 
> Thanks again for reading!

The moment the car pulls onto Main Street, Stiles has found himself slouched down in the backseat as far as he can go; he has his aviators on and is tempted to grab the ball cap by his side to jam over his head, but a twinge of pride keeps him from doing it. There’s nothing more in the world he’d like better than to disappear right now, but he’s surprised to find that a small part of him feels indignant, challenging, as if to say _Yes, motherfuckers, I’m in Beacon Hills, so what?_ But the moment they’re driving by the local Walmart and he spots his old neighbor, Mrs. Landers, in the parking lot, any notion of not giving a fuck is replaced by desperate self-preservation; he lets out an odd, strangled sound and slides down sideways in his seat, trying to be as casual as possible,

“Did you see her?” Stiles asks Scott, who is also looking in the old woman’s direction; Stiles feels ridiculous, now hunched over the middle console, but Scott and Allison are wonderful for acting as if it was the most normal thing in the whole world. Scott glances back and grins at him,

“Yeah, man, she’s living in the same house and everything…”

“God, how is she still _alive?”_ Stiles chuckles and can’t help but remember a few good memories he hasn’t bothered to recall in many years,

“I think she still has that evil Pomeranian too…” Allison puts in and Stiles scrunches up his nose in disgust,

“I always hated that vile creature.” He pushes his aviators into his hair and sits up straighter until he’s braced against Allison’s seat,

“Hey, Scott! You remember that one time we fucking _drowned_ all of Mrs. Lander’s roses?” Stiles suddenly asks and the two break out into peals of laughter; Allison rolls her eyes, but grins.

“She was _so_ angry! I’m surprised you guys didn’t give her a heart attack.” Allison groans and Stiles tilts his head back and cackles,

“Maybe that was the end goal all along…” He jokes, and Allison turns in her seat to give him a hard punch in the shoulder. _You’re so mean,_ she mouths at him.

“…Man, we thought we were doing such a great job…” Scott says incredulously,

“You guys were trying to earn some extra cash, right?” Allison asks and Scott nods slowly, the corner of his mouth pulled down awkwardly, “Well, that obviously didn’t happen.” She giggles.

“She still gave me Christmas cookies that year though.” Stiles pipes up, and Scott’s mouth drops open; he nearly turns all the way around in his seat to glare at the other man,

“You told me she didn’t give you any because we murdered her damn flowers!” Scott nearly shouts, looking betrayed.

“I wanted to eat them all…” Stiles explains sheepishly, and Scott shakes his head, eyeing Stiles in the rearview mirror,

“Does our friendship mean _nothing_ to you?”

“Dude, we were, like, twelve, and I wanted all the cookies, ok? That's hardly a crime.”

“We _always_ shared the cookies _every_ year, you asshole!”

“Last time I checked, she was _my_ neighbor, not yours!” Stiles shoots back, a smile cracking the serious front he’s trying to put on. Allison reaches back and pats Stiles on the shoulder consolingly before shoving him back into his seat,

“Ok, girls,” She drawls, “the bitch fight ends here.” And the car falls quiet, except for a couple snickers from Stiles. Scott gives him the evil eye one last time, but he has a shit-eating grin on his face. After a while, Stiles turns to look back out the window at the town passing by, and he’s surprised to find that he can’t keep the full-fledged smile off his face; Stiles doesn’t know it, but Scott is still looking at him in the rearview mirror, and Scott can’t help but feel immensely grateful Stiles is smiling the way he is…

He sincerely and a bit foolishly hopes it will last.

 

Beacon Hills hasn’t changed much since Stiles left it: Main Street is still the same, minus a couple new shop fronts he doesn’t recognize and a few restaurants he doesn’t remember seeing before. He feels his heart wrench and gives a wistful smile as they pass by Beacon Hills High; there are kids milling about in front, eager to leave, with their backpacks slung carelessly over their shoulders. Their laughter and smiles are constant and uncomplicated with youth. Stiles can’t remember feeling that way, uncomplicated, but he knows he must’ve been once, with not a care in the world. It feels like a lifetime ago.

“Think Coach Finstock is still terrorizing the lacrosse team?” Stiles mutters, smirking as he spots players in the field behind the school. Allison looks around to follow the direction of Stiles’ gaze,

“I honestly can’t imagine him doing anything else. He’s way too good at weirding the shit out of awkward high school kids.” Allison laughs,

“Dude, you remember how he’d always start team huddles with all those stupid _Independence Day_ quotes?” Stiles exclaims and rolls his eyes, “I still can’t watch that movie.” Scott agrees with a sympathetic groan and shakes his head in amusement; the pool goes by his window, and Stiles sees the swim team hard at work sliding into the water with adolescent grace.

“Me neither, man. ...Hey, you know, I think Mr. Harris retired though.” Stiles pulls a face,

“Thank God. I really fucking hated his chemistry class…” He moans, and Scott gives him a pointed look,

“You weren’t exactly the easiest student to teach, you Adderall junkie.” He says teasingly, and Allison holds up a hand, her fingers splayed,

“Five second attention span, Stiles, that’s all I gotta say.” She adds, and Stiles slumps back in his seat,

“Wow. Way to team up on the little guy.” He pouts, but his eyes are shining with subdued amusement. “Jerks.” He adds under his breath at the same time as a crooked grin splits across his face.

“You know you love us!” Allison sing-songs and reaches back to grab Stiles’ knee, making him jump. He settles into his seat again and leans his head back against the headrest,

“Would I be here if I didn’t?” He says quietly, but there’s no heat to his words, just a bit of nervousness and maybe a trace of hopeful anticipation. Allison pats his knee encouragingly before taking it back. Stiles watches as she places her hand in Scott’s, their fingers laced tightly together, and her other hand comes to rest on the precious swell of her belly. Stiles feels a deep gratitude for these two incredible friends of his, and the pleasant feeling is deep and soothing. He’s not surprised to find though that it only temporarily masks the constant thrum of fear still crawling under his skin.

 

Stiles feels his throat constrict as Beacon Hills slowly turns from an active business district into a maze of too-familiar suburbs. If he thinks the shops and the schools haven’t changed much, Stiles feels as if he’s been transported directly back in time as the houses and yards slip by. There’s still the ugly yellow house on the corner of 6th and Trent, Mr. and Mrs. Chadwick’s lawn still doesn’t have even a single blade of green grass in it, and James Bardeen still had four too many dogs howling from his front yard. Nothing looks different at all, and it brings memories to Stiles’ mind as if he were reliving them in the flesh: as they pass 8th, he swears he can see his ten-year-old self zigzagging down the street on his brother’s bike with Scott behind him, propelling himself as fast as he can on a beat-up scooter, trying unsuccessfully to keep up.

As they get closer to Scott’s parents’ home, Stiles becomes more and more closed-off and quiet, which are qualities no one in their right mind would normally associate with him in the slightest. Scott watches him carefully in the rearview mirror from time to time, and Allison tries her best to make easy conversation by talking about plans for the wedding and house hunting and the like. Stiles tries to remain optimistic, even though he knows he’s going to end up only a handful of blocks away from his own childhood home, so he cracks jokes and marvels out loud at the neighbors they pass by, keeping his tone light and his lips carefully trained into a constant smile. He knows he doesn’t have to pretend around them, but Stiles wants to spare Scott and Allison the turmoil he feels churning in his stomach like an illness he can’t get rid of; this is _their_ time—their wedding, their baby—and Stiles would never be able to forgive himself if he took away from that.

It’s no surprise to anyone that as the Honda Pilot pulls into the driveway, Frank and Cindy McCall are already standing on their front porch; Cindy beams at them as she comes forward, her arms already outstretched even before any of them are out of the car.

“My babies are home!” She croons as she opens Allison’s door and helps her out; Allison is already six months along, and getting in and out of cars has become difficult, so she’s grateful Cindy seems intent on pulling her right out of her seat and into a bone-crushing embrace,

“Look at you,” Cindy breathes, her smile getting even wider as she looks Allison over excitedly, “What a beautiful mother-to-be!” She exclaims and watches Scott come around the front of the car with a knowing smile,

“Scott McCall, you better count your lucky stars with this one.” She pulls Scott into a tight hug and he rolls his eyes as he loops his arms around his mother’s waist and squeezes her tight,

“I still don’t know how you’re so surprised by all this, mom. Allison and I have been together for eleven years.” He groans, still in her embrace,

“ _Twelve_ years.” Allison says as she leans up to give Frank a hug, feeling his rumble of laughter reverberate through her arms; Cindy breaks out into laughter, and she holds her son at arm’s length,

“Get used to being corrected.” She recommends with a quirk of her eyebrow, and Scott nods in exaggerated obedience, smirking.

“Stiles Stilinski!” Cindy all but yells as she turns to him and yanks him into a hug that nearly knocks the air out of him. He wraps his arms around her slight form, amazed such physical strength can come from such a small woman. Mrs. McCall hugs Stiles as if he was her own, and Stiles can feel it right down to his bones. With the McCalls, he always felt like he belonged, and he’s incredibly thankful for that wonderful sensation right now.

“Good Lord!” She exclaims, pulling back to look him up and down, “I didn’t think you were gonna grow much taller—and you were so _gangly_ back in high school—but look at that! You filled out _quite_ nicely.” She gives him a pat on the shoulder and an innocently mischievous smile that makes him chuckle.

“I’m just as surprised as you are, trust me.” Stiles jokes, just as Frank slings his arm around Stiles’ shoulder, almost knocking him off balance,

“He’s still awkward on his feet, I see.” Frank chuckles as Stiles catches himself from stumbling forward. Stiles gives Frank a winning grin as he thumps him on the back,

“And I’m till gonna get beat up by your dad, I see.” Stiles says to Scott, who holds his hands up in mock surrender,

“Like that’s anything to whine about.” He says sarcastically, adding, “It’s not like _you_ have to survive a wedding.” Both Cindy and Allison are quick to smack Scott, managing to make it almost simultaneous. Scott flinches in pain,

“ _Ow!_ God, that hurt…” He whimpers, and turns to Stiles again who is trying his best to keep laughter from exploding out of his mouth, “See what kind of abuse I have to put up with?” Scott demands and smartly steps back out of reach. Frank is chuckling, his eyebrows turned up in that way he gets when he’s thoroughly amused,

“Did I ever tell you that one story when your mother and I were engaged…” Frank starts, his arm still slung over Stiles’ shoulder, warm and heavy,

“Only a million times…” Scott complains…

 

It’s kind of surreal as Stiles observes the whirlwind of activity around him and listens to the friendly banter going on between them; Stiles, Scott, and Frank exchange jokes and jabs as they unload the car, and Cindy gets Allison inside where it’s shady and cool so they can talk about the wedding. The late afternoon sun is slanting over the yard, sending streaks of light over the azalea bushes Stiles remembers playing under as a kid. When he takes a moment to stand on the sidewalk and look down the street, he feels a surprising sense of calm wash over him. The neighbors are out doing their own things: children are playing in the street, a woman is walking her Golden Retriever, and a man in a business suit is just now getting around to checking his mail. It’s all so mundane and normal, and Stiles finds that he likes it. He takes in a deep breath and grins: there are the shadows of sequoias and cottonwoods playing over the asphalt, the constant hum of crickets buzzing in the heat, and the smell of coastal air, slightly salty and fresh. It’s intoxicating. It all has an alluring quality that’s completely missing in the damp Chicago streets outside his apartment, and it makes him feel as if he’s been tipped upside down on his head or stuck in a bizarre dream.

“How’re you doing?” Scott asks, his voice quiet. Stiles shifts slightly, unaware Scott has been by his side the whole time. Scott’s tone is knowing, asking more than the simple words will allow, and Stiles gives him a reassuring look,

“I’m good.” Stiles says decidedly and his smile broadens slowly but surely; Scott nudges his shoulder with his own and lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in,

“That’s great, man, it really is. You have no idea how happy that makes me.” He says, and Stiles can see he really means it. Stiles gives him a grateful look and then chuckles,

“You’re such a hopeless romantic.” He complains good-naturedly, and the two watch in silence as the sun falls below the horizon and leaves Beacon Hills in a peaceful twilight.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek and Sarah enter Beacon Hills and Derek struggles with the fear of meeting his parents after so long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra long chapter here! Hooray :)
> 
> Just a heads up: There is some hetero love in this chapter (but no full on sex), mentions of impotence, and graphic depictions of violence and gore.
> 
> Derek's family lives on a fictional lake. Because lakes are cool. And because it will make more sense in later chapters.
> 
> Also sorry for any inaccurate descriptions of combat, etc. My bad. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Enjoy!

“…and your sister said she’d be flying in after we get there. I mean, I don’t know why she didn’t book an earlier flight, but…” Sarah is going on and on, and Derek can’t say he’s been listening much. He’s spent the last few hours watching the world pass by his window but taking nothing in. He hasn’t allowed his thoughts to stray, and for now he has found a place inside himself where things don’t register on an emotional spectrum; it’s a place where he feels nothing. Over the years, he has nearly perfected this psychological haven, but the past few months have found him silently horrified to discover that it’s been getting harder and harder to escape there. And escape is crucial, because he knows that if he lets himself feel, what will come bubbling up to the surface will be nothing but dark suffocating fear.

“…I didn’t have a chance to send it to your mom last Christmas. Do you think she’ll like it?” Sarah maneuvers the black Passat onto Main Street and sits quietly for a moment, still waiting for an answer. Derek is looking at Beacon Hills High pass by his window, and his lips are set in a thin, hard line,

“Yeah…” He murmurs, and it’s so blatantly clear that he hasn’t been listening to a word she’s said the entire time. Sarah doesn’t even bother harping on him or repeating the question; She is long past even feeling insulted, but not because she knows Derek doesn’t mean it. She turns her eyes back to the road and her knuckles are white where her fists are clenched on the steering wheel.

Derek is trying not to study Beacon Hills too closely, but as they pass by people and places he still knows so well, he can’t help but scrutinize everything with a strange and slightly terrifying vigor, like a desperately thirsty man finally drinking water again. There is, of course, the high school, where he excelled in AP English, led the football team to playoffs, and received his first blowjob in a janitor’s closet from a girl named Natalie Price; then there’s Bryant Park where he spent long, hot summer evenings playing baseball with his buddies and where he smoked pot for the first time with one of Laura’s short-lived boyfriends from college; passing by the mom-and-pop grocery store where he worked his first paying job at sixteen even brings a small smile to his face: on his second day of work, he had attempted to restock a fridge full of chilled beverages and managed to explode a two-liter bottle of Pepsi by accident. He had drenched himself in soda and wanted to die of embarrassment; the owner at the time, Josh Michaels, never let Derek live that one down for the remaining two-and-a-half years that he worked there.

Beacon Hills is still so terribly alive for Derek, and the fact that not all of it is as bad and as frightening as he thought it would be fills him not with relief, but with anger and an acute sense of guilt. He feels like a traitor, not to Beacon Hills per se, but to the unsuspecting and innocent boy who grew up there and to the bitter man who is now returning.

The two drive in silence until they reach the end of town and cramped blocks of housing turn into narrow, winding roads cutting through the rolling hills of the Californian countryside. They don’t go too far out of town before Sarah is turning off onto a carefully tended gravel road that slopes gently downward to meet the level banks of Clay Lake, named so on account of the minerals in the thick dense earth, which streak the ground in varying shades of mustard yellow and burnt rust. 

The lake is a shimmering body of water that stretches around a bend in the distance and hugs the banks of a quiet and small collection of old houses where mostly elderly couples tend their half-acres of land and have boathouses and sprawling backyards. On the far side, a tall coniferous forest rambles on as far as the eye can see, deep and undisturbed. From the sloping road, Derek has a full view of the place he once called home: he knows every damn tree and ditch, has explored every bit of the undulating land, has left no rock unturned, and has swum around the entire lake more times than he can count. Even the woods beyond are familiar to him, filled with memories of camping as a boy and bonfires and parties as a teenager. Derek has to shut his eyes as they slowly make their way down the road. He’s seen too much of it already.

Between the bending laurels and tall cottonwoods sits a two-story house with an immaculate lawn and a roundabout driveway; his childhood home looks beautiful but subdued and washed-out, as if its owners are tired even though they remain ever dutiful to its needs. The house sits quietly there, and, while Derek once remembered it being a bit more lively with toys left in the yard and the front door always open, he now sees it is a home that belongs to a retired, aging couple with children long gone.

Panic rises in the back of Derek’s throat, rapid and terrifyingly overwhelming; it prickles his skin and makes the hair on the back of his neck rise. His heart begins to flutter in his chest and a cold sweat breaks out along his hairline and turns his hands clammy and numb. He swallows almost convulsively and desperately pushes down the notion that he might puke. Sarah glances at him as she pulls into the roundabout and parks the car off to the side. Derek is staring hard at the front door and the yard of the house he used to live in, his eyes wide and unblinking, and as much as he fights it he can’t help but remember the last time he was looking at the same scene…  
He remembers the black and white of police cars and the glare of red and blue lights glancing off the house’s white exterior…

_He feels the icy grate of metal against his wrists, brutal and unforgiving, and he wants desperately to call out for his parents, to plead and beg, but he knows there is nothing he could possibly say that would come close to granting him absolution. The extraordinary pain, shame, and guilt festering in every fiber of his being at that exact moment is impossibly sharp, like a knife in the gut. As he’s being dragged out of his own home and across the very lawn he played in as a little boy, a long, high-pitched cry rises above the shrill metallic sound of the sirens. The wail is piercing and filled with an anguish and despair so monstrously complete and irreversible it’s absolutely bone-chilling. The front door and yard seem to swim behind Derek’s tears as he stares at them, but the look on his mother’s face as she steps down from the porch and runs into the yard, her eyes wide with misery and anger and her mouth open in an impossible ‘o’, is razor sharp and excruciatingly clear as he watches her, horrified, unable to tear his eyes away. He realizes too late that the ear-splitting wail is the sound of his mother’s voice screaming at him, accusing him of murder._

Back in the car, Derek sucks in a staggering breath and holds it in, unable to let it out for fear of what might follow it. _I can’t do this, I can’t do this…_ He chants like a mantra in his head, and he wants to turn to Sarah and force her to understand, to make her turn the car right around and drive them all the way back to Texas. But he doesn’t. He trains his eyes steadily somewhere on the dashboard in front of him and places his hand on the door handle, frantically willing himself to calm down.

“Babe, you ok?” Sarah has her hand on his shoulder and her look is concerned but also distracted. She’s looking out Derek’s window, her eyes tracking someone’s movement. Derek looks up to meet her stare and sees that she’s looking at something else, and before he can talk himself out of it, he turns his head to follow her gaze.

Suddenly Derek has locked eyes with his father.

His father, who is walking towards the car with those long, sure strides Derek would always remember.

His father, who now has more white hair than black and wrinkles Derek has never seen before.

His father, who is wearing the most sincere smile Derek has ever witnessed. It’s a smile laced with a bit of apprehension and reserve, as if he’s about to meet someone he doesn’t know, but it’s also happy, and familiar, and excited, and strikingly genuine. It’s a smile meant only for his son, and Derek feels it melt away some of his anxiety, leaving him painfully raw and gloriously optimistic in a frightening way.

The next thing Derek knows, he’s out of the car and wrapped in his father’s impossibly tight embrace. Derek inhales the scent of his father, Old Spice and detergent and clean skin, and is transported back to the earliest memories of his childhood; it’s as if he’s a boy again enfolded in his father’s long arms, the deep rumble of his voice and the scratch of his beard a tangible reminder of all that once was and would always be.

“Derek.” His father’s tone wavers slightly and is thick with unspoken emotion. When his old man pulls away, his look is poignant and wistful, but these sentiments are shadowed by an undeniable pleasure that helps make Derek feel a little less like a wolf in sheep’s skin.

“I’m happy to see you, son.” His father says and his voice is gravelly rough; he gives Derek a single, solid pat on the arm, which jostles him slightly, and Derek is surprised to find that the pain from his wound hardly registers at all.

He stares at his dad, wide-eyed and dazed, and is almost afraid to blink in case everything disappears in a puff of smoke.

“It’s good to see you too, dad…” He whispers, the words barely audible, and his father gives him a gentle, relieved smile.

“And who’s this pretty little lady?” His father laughs and pulls Sarah into his outstretched arms, “Sarah Beals, is that really you?” His dad looks her over and says some smart remark about her hair being dyed since the last time they saw each other and Sarah giggles, telling him he could do with a dye himself. Derek watches the two carefully, but the conversation becomes fuzzy and unimportant. The mere fact that he’s standing here, watching his father exchange pleasantries with his fiancée, is bizarre; he’s sure it can’t get any stranger, but then the fact that he still has to meet his mother grounds him with a shock of irrational terror.

He can feel her gaze on him even before he knows where she is. He travels over the yard on autopilot, his eyes fixed on the green grass passing beneath his feet, and feels the way her eyes bore into him; however, he can’t tell what could possibly be going through her head or what kind of residual animosity she may still harbor for him. It’s only after he reaches the cobbled walkway, his shoes scuffing against the stone, that he feels compelled to raise his head and finally meet her stare.

Elizabeth Hale is an exceptionally graceful woman with quick wit and eyes as sharp as a hawk’s; she is tall, like her husband, and slender, although Derek sees the years have put more weight on her. She holds her head high, and as her only boy comes to a stop before her, like a botched prodigal son, she gives him a broad smile, her hand held out for him to take. He watches her carefully, the apprehension pulsing fast and erratic in his veins like a bad trip.

He doesn’t feel hopeful, as he studies his mother’s features; he can clearly see the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, but he can also see that she is trying. Behind the welcoming façade, he can sense that she is torn, that the very sight of him elicits a sorrow so deep she may never be able to look at him without feeling at least a twinge of it. The grief, still strong but faded with time, has become a part of her over the years, as natural to her as having God-given arms and legs.

In her one look, Derek understands that she may never be able to completely reconcile with him, but through her gaze, as tender as it is petrifying, she is willing him to be patient with her, and that’s more than he could ever ask for.

To hold her in his arms is just as much alien as it is innate; the sensation is something he has forgotten, but it comes crashing back down on him with her simplest touch. He feels tears desperately pushing behind his eyes and he chokes on words he doesn’t know he wants to say. She holds him as genuinely as she ever had when he was little, and Derek wonders if it is because, no matter what, she will always be his mother, the woman who brought him into this world, the woman who bore him through thick and thin and in whose nature it was to always love, even when she didn’t want to.

She studies him carefully, her eyes raking up the years she can see in her son’s face and in every rigid line of his body. _Assessing the damage_ , Derek thinks, and hopes she considers it part of the penance for his sins. Before she can speak, and Derek wonders if she was ever going to, he hears the thud of his father’s boots against the porch steps and feels the heavy weight of his hand fall on the nape of his neck, squeezing slightly.

“Look at this, Liz.” His father, John, says lightly, his voice still excited but also way too aware of the strain between the two, “The Army’s been pretty good to our boy, huh?" and to Derek, "Made a man out of you.” He laughs and grips Derek’s bicep, hardly able to wrap his fingers around it. _Made a man out of you_ , Derek winces at his father’s words even though he knows his dad only meant to refer to the solid muscle he’s put on over the years. Sarah laughs from where she now stands next to his mother, and Derek tries hard to put a smile on his face,

“Gotta keep up with the best…” He deflects, “I served with some really great guys.” and his father takes his hand and shakes it solemnly, his expression suddenly more grave.

“That’s a really brave thing you did for those men back there, Derek, saving their lives the way you did. The whole country should be thankful for your service. Thank you, son.” His words are heartfelt but they also sound automatic, as if it’s an obligation to thank the solider for his time even when Derek knows there’s no way his civilian father could ever fully comprehend what he is thanking him for. His father’s words make Derek feel nauseated, but he nods slightly, his fake smile never wavering,

“Thanks.” Is all he says, even when he wants to say _It’s not a big deal. Anyone else would have done the same. I’m not as brave as you think…_  
His mother’s smile is thin as she watches him,

“Yes, Derek, thank you.” She says, and it sounds like she means it, except that all it does is make Derek feel like he’s been skinned alive. _You of all people shouldn’t thank me for anything…_

And it’s like the world is stuck in place, and they are the only two people in it, glued to their spots on the porch and locked in a strange staring contest where they’re each trying to read the other like the pages in a book; his mother’s book, however, is in a different language he can’t make out, and so he gives up.

Suddenly they’re in the house and his parents’ voices are ringing in his head, punctuated by Sarah’s familiar tone and her fluttering laughter. The house is mostly the same as he remembers it, except for a few things, but the moment his eyes latch onto the flight of steps leading upstairs, he freezes,

“The doctor says I shouldn’t be going up and down stairs yet…” He blurts, and his parents turn to stare at him curiously; Derek doesn’t see it, but Sarah whips her head around to give him an incredulous look. His father seems to snap into action first and he plasters a sympathetic grin on his face, patting Derek on the shoulder,

“Of course, of course.” He replies, his voice even and painfully light. Sarah turns to the stairs and marvels at them as if they somehow had the ability to physically assault Derek, what with the way he had seemed so intent on steering clear of them.

Sarah has never known Derek to take a word of advice, especially from doctors, and he always seems to be doing things he shouldn’t yet, like attempting to drive, and so she stares suspiciously at the back of his head as his mother leads him into the living room. She looks back to the stairs and realizes that if Derek isn’t going to go up the stairs, it isn’t because he _can’t_ , it’s because he _doesn’t want to_. She doesn’t really have to wonder why as she glances at the pictures lining the wall on the way up. There is one in particular that catches her attention: it is a photo of a young Derek, maybe fifteen or so, his smile is blinding and his eyes are crinkled shut as if he’d just been laughing; two girls have their arms laced over his shoulders on either side of him, and their smiles are as bright as their brother’s.

She quickly pushes away her thoughts as Derek’s father calls to her from the living room, a joke rolling of the top of his tongue and it assuages the wave of sadness she has just experienced at the bottom of the stairs. She walks into the living room just in time to hear Derek say,

“You got a new couch…” his tone is kind of blank, and his mother laughs, her hand running across the beige material.

“It’s nice, isn’t it? You know your father and I always wanted leather furniture in here,” She smiles, but not at him, “We just agreed we’d wait until you kids were grown and out of the house. So they don’t get ruined.” She teases, but a twinge of self-reproach twists darkly in his stomach, and he hardly manages to keep the smile fixed on his face.

“Oh.” He says dumbly, and watches Sarah take a seat in the wide armchair, looking content, “Yeah. It’s really nice.” He adds distractedly, and his father sits down heavily on the couch and motions for Derek to follow suit. His mother excuses herself in order to “get refreshments” from the kitchen, overly formal, as if she is having a guest over instead of her own son, and Derek suddenly feels ten times more out of place again.

Liz takes a seat beside Sarah after handing them all glasses of iced water with wedges of lemon, and the four are suddenly thrust into uncomfortable silence. Sarah sips her water, and Derek watches as his dad fiddles with a loose thread at the seam of his jeans.

“The couch is comfortable…” Derek supplies, and the levity he’s going for is almost believable except that it’s so obvious he’s saying anything he can just to make some kind of sound. His mom brightens, relieved to jump back into conversation, however trivial,

“Oh, yes. We thought so too, when we tried it out at the store.” His dad’s laugh is a bit strained as he adds,

“It was only the _millionth_ couch we’d tried at the time.” He looks over at his wife fondly, but with a hint of mischief, “You know how your mother has to have things just right; for a while there I was sure we would never find a set good enough for her.” Liz glares at him, but it’s not meant to be spiteful. Sarah laughs and stretches out in the armchair, her gaze on Derek.

“Well, I’d say the hunt was well worth it.” She grins and Liz pats her hand,

“You would not believe how John complained the entire time we were looking. But now I can hardly get him off the couch anymore.” Liz rolls her eyes and Derek can’t help but grin as his father lets out an annoyed grunt.

“Well the couch better be comfortable enough to sleep on,” Derek jokes, putting a lopsided grin on his face, “because I’m not making it up any stairs.” and this time he doesn't miss the slightly inquisitive look Sarah throws his way, but she quickly masks the expression with a smile.

“Oh, no, no.” His mother waves her hand at him, as if to dismiss the idea, “You remember that workshop we had out back? We renovated it a few years ago and turned it into a little studio.” She explains, looking pleased, “Figured it’d be useful. Like now.” And she takes Sarah’s right hand and runs her thumb over the sparkling engagement ring on Sarah’s finger; a flush of pleasure rises to Sarah’s cheeks as Liz inspects the diamond and smiles.

“This is the first time I’ve had a chance to see it in person!” Liz exclaims, and holds Sarah’s hand up for John to see from where he’s still seated in the other chair; he gives an appreciative nod and then throws a sly look at Derek, whose heart drops. Derek gives him a weak smirk and turns his eyes back on Sarah, who is thoroughly enjoying Liz gush over the ring.

“My boy has great taste, I see.” She says smugly, and Sarah only hesitates momentarily before correcting her,

“Well, I chose it, actually.” And Liz turns to look at Derek, who fights to keep himself from shrinking under her stare.

“Oh. Well, he has even better taste for letting the lady have her pick.” She reasons, her voice overly bright, and Derek can tell she is slightly put off by the idea, but he just smiles at her anyway. The whole conversation is putting him on edge, and he wishes they would talk about something else; Sarah has had that ring on her finger for over three years now, and the longer it sits there the more it seems to lose its meaning.

“I bet you’re glad to be home.” John has leaned towards Derek, his look devilish and knowing.

“Um, yeah.” Derek swallows back his uneasiness, unsure of what his father is trying to get at, “Civilian life’s been hard to get used to though…”

“Not with a beautiful woman like this here to help you!” John exclaims, motioning to his fiancee. Sarah blushes and smiles, but her eyes travel over to Derek where their gazes meet, cool and serious. There’s something in her eyes that Derek can see, something unsure and indecisive, and he knows it’s mirrored in his own stare. Suddenly, he understands why his parents are so delighted over the studio and excited for the engagement. They probably think he and Sarah have been all over each other since his return, ecstatic to be back in each other’s arms.

“It must be nice to have him back in one piece.” His father winks at Sarah, innocently enough, because these are still his parents, for God’s sake, but the meaning isn’t lost on either of them. She giggles and watches Derek carefully, weighing her words.

 _Go ahead,_ Derek thinks, _Tell them about what a bastard I’ve been this whole time, about how we’re always at each other’s throats, about how sometimes you can’t even stand to be in the same room as me…_

“There’s never a dull moment,” She laughs, “that’s for sure. But I love him.” And her expression, as she locks eyes with Derek, is sincere, imploring, “I wouldn’t want it any other way.” And Derek feels violently ill because he knows what they have is broken, perhaps it has always been broken. He put that ring on Sarah’s finger for selfish reasons; he had wanted to keep some part of Beacon Hills with him, some small inkling of the life he had been forced to leave behind, and if that meant tethering his high school sweet heart to the cruel, unforgivable man he had made out of himself, so be it. He doesn’t know whether to fix things between them or run; he doesn’t know if he has what it takes to do either.

“I love you too, babe.” He whispers and hardly recognizes the words as they fall from his lips, heavy as lead.

 

The studio is a quaint little building that looks nothing like the messy workshop Derek once remembered occupying the backyard; it’s new and sparkly clean and has wide windows in the bedroom that overlook the lake.

Derek can barely make out the dark water, but sometimes he catches the light of the waning moon ricochet off the shivering ripples, like something in a fleeting dream.

Sarah walks out of the bathroom in nothing but her underwear and one of Derek’s T-shirts, and she climbs over the bed until she gets to the other side, right behind Derek’s seated form.

“God, I’m so glad your parents had this renovated,” She sighs and kneads her fingers gently over Derek’s tense shoulders, “Your parents are great, but I seriously would’ve hated to stay in their house every night.” And Derek nods in agreement. He’s grateful too, but not for the same reasons.

“They were kinda awkward about putting us out here, don’t you think…? It was like they were trying too hard with those jokes.” She scrunches up her nose, “Like we haven’t already been living together for the past seven years!” She giggles,

“They _are_ still my parents.” Derek chuckles, “They probably still freak out over the thought that their little boy isn't a virgin.” And she hums, leaning forward and draping her hand over his good shoulder, her fingers curling under the hem of his shirt,

“And a _virgin_ we certainly know you are not.” She whispers in his ear, and Derek feels his skin heat up just at the same time as dread begins settling into his bones. She chastely kisses the soft skin right below his earlobe as she lets her hand slip under the waistband of his sweatpants.

“Sarah…” He starts, his voice low. He doesn’t know if it’s a warning or a plea. Sarah sucks lightly on the skin at the nape of his neck as her fingers curl around his soft dick, and he grits his teeth. He wants to tell her to stop at the same time as he wants to tell her to continue.

She strokes him slowly as she continues to kiss his shoulders, but he can’t get hard. Shame courses through his body, and his cheeks redden with humiliation. His fists are clenched by his sides, and it’s only a matter of time before he can’t stay quiet anymore; she’s tried, and it’s not working.

“Sarah,” He says again, and this time it’s firmer. She makes a small, disappointed sound and swings her long legs around until she can maneuver off the bed,

“Maybe…we just need to try something else…” She offers, her voice clipped with an eager desperation; she starts to tug at his sweatpants from where she’s kneeling in front of him, but he shakes his head, self-disgust thick at the back of his throat. He gently pushes her hands away,

“No…no. Sarah, c’mon.” He murmurs, his voice gruff, but she stays persistent, her hands pulling at his clothes,

“Sarah. _Please!”_ He snaps, and Sarah looks startled as she turns wide eyes on him from where she’s still crouched at his feet. He immediately regrets it,

“I’m sorry, baby, I didn’t mean to.” He says quickly, his voice soft, and he pulls her up into his arms, “It’s just been…a long day. You know what the doctors said…about stress…” He runs his hand through her dark blonde hair, feeling her tense body, unrelenting against his own, “I’m sorry, Sarah.” He says again, soft and almost inaudible, and in those three words Sarah can hear he means sorry for much more than just snapping at her. She becomes pliable in his arms, sighing away the hurt and anger, and she wraps her arms around him as he slowly lays her back against the bedspread.

“God, I’m so fucking sorry…” He breathes against her skin as they lay in the dark, and she doesn’t realize he’s thinking about how he’s sorry he’s wasted so many of her years. He knows deep in his heart how to do right by her, and it’s not by keeping that ring on her finger and meeting her down the aisle. He knows this in the core of his very being, but as he slips his hand into the silky material of her panties, his fingers quick to caress her soft, warm flesh, he feels furiously helpless to do anything about it. He is afraid to let go of the few things that are still familiar to him, he is afraid to let go of the one person who has been with him unfailingly, even when he knows what they have between them is quickly becoming more destructive than good.

Derek kisses her slowly as his fingers press past the folds of her sex and enter her, tight and hot; she lets out a long breathy moan as his thumb circles her clit, slowly applying more pressure as his fingers begin to move faster.

“Derek, Derek…” She moans, and Derek kisses her quiet, his tongue slick over her open lips. She’s close already, and it makes Derek realize how long it’s been since they’ve had sex, since they’ve done _anything_. Between the injury and the re-adjustment, they haven’t managed to have sex at all; in fact, Derek can’t remember the last time he was able to achieve or maintain an erection, and that thought scares the shit out of him. His doctors and psychiatrist promise him that “it’s only stress”, but Derek fears it can’t be as simple as just that.

Sarah’s thighs clamp down on his wrist, and Derek feels the walls of her sex tighten around his fingers,

“Ooohhhh…” Her breath hitches in her throat and she shudders. He’s lying by her side and he rolls forward, half on top of her. He roughly pushes up her shirt until her breasts are exposed, and he teases her hardened nipple between his lips, teeth grazing the sensitive skin,

“God, _Derek!_ ” She fists her hand in his hair as he pulls his fingers out, warm and wet, and drags them up to her clit, his slick fingers rubbing in rapid figure eights, just the way he knows she likes it.

Sarah fails to bite back another groan as she begins to writhe again, her hips grinding down onto his hand. Sarah gives a sudden cry and her body shivers; Derek slowly lets off the pressure with his fingers to ease her down from her orgasm, and she sucks in a long deep breath. She smiles at him, her face slightly sweaty and her cheeks bright pink,

“Wow.” She laughs, still out of breath, and she leans forward to kiss him on the lips, slow and easy, “Thank you.” She says, and Derek brushes her hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear,

“Thank _you._ ” He says, and he means it, he really does. She snorts and gives him a smirk,

“I didn’t do anything though.” She replies, a little pointedly, “You’re the one who just gave me a mind-blowing orgasm, therefore, thank _you._ ” He smiles against her lips,

“I am pretty good, aren’t I?” He says cockily, and she puts an exaggerated look on her face, as if she has to think really hard about this,

“Well, you could maybe do with a bit more practice…” she leers, and Derek chuckles at this before rolling slowly onto his back.

“You feel ok?” She asks, noticing how his breathing is rather shallow,

“M’fine.” Derek replies, suddenly and grossly tired, as if he hasn’t slept in weeks. Sarah knows he isn’t fine, but she doesn’t push him. The silence stretches on between them, and the two seem content for now to just lie there and watch the shimmer of the lake water dance on the ceiling above them.

“Sleep here tonight?” Sarah asks eventually, her voice so quiet Derek isn’t sure he heard her. He turns slowly to look at her silhouetted profile,

“…I can’t.” He finally says, and she sighs, any trace of their post-orgasmic ceasefire gone in a poof of smoke. She’s frustrated, but she doesn’t fight him on it or beg him to stay. Instead, she simply says,

“You mean you won’t.”

Sarah feels the bed dip as Derek gets up, and she hears the rustling of fabric as he pulls another blanket from the closet without a word. He goes to sleep on the couch in the other room.

 

Derek holds two Vicodin in the palm of his shaking hand; he glares at them hatefully before tossing them back, quick to chase the white powdery pills with a tall glass of water. He despises taking the painkillers, and he’s managed to hold off for most of his recovery, a large part of him banking on his high threshold for pain tolerance and the smaller part of himself wallowing in the excruciating ache because he feels he deserves it.

Tonight, though, as he sits in the near pitch-black darkness on a couch that is much too hard, his chest flares with a vengeance. He hadn’t noticed the pain throughout the day’s earlier events, too emotionally shell shocked and overwhelmed, but now it comes back worse than he’s felt it in weeks; the entry wound is a pinprick of white hot nerve endings that make it feel like he’s been punched right in the lung. Even worse though, is the way he can’t seem to keep a decent breath of air in said lung because it feels like the spongy tissue is being shredded to pieces with each inhalation. Derek doesn’t like painkillers, but tonight the thought of staying awake in torturous agony is even less appealing; after everything he’s been through today, Derek is willing to beg on his hands and knees for a decent night’s sleep.

There is still one thing far worse than any of the physical pain though, and Derek hopes the Vicodin will be enough to drop him into a deep sleep where he can escape the chronic nightmares that leave him so terrifyingly wracked with heartache and a fear so razor-sharp and tangible he can taste it and smell it. It’s like the repulsive metallic sting of blood on his tongue and the sweet stench of decay; it makes him sick.

As he lays back on the couch, grimacing as it hardly gives under his weight, hard as a rock, he already knows wishing for dreamless sleep will only ever be just that, wishing; he resigns himself to a fitful night’s rest, and hopes to God he won’t wake up screaming.

 

_Derek looks down past his M9 where an enemy soldier is staring back at him. He has the barrel of his gun pressed to the stranger's forehead. Derek can’t break his eyes away from the look on the man’s face, resolute but afraid, sweat sliding down his temple, lips set in a grim, angry line._

_“Come on!” The squad leader, Sergeant Carter, barks at him, and Derek flinches. He’s a month into his very first tour and it’s been a living hell. He’s scared out of his mind, but it’s a new fear, a fear much simpler than the one he’s used to living with, and he’s grateful for that. He would rather go into combat, green and scared shitless, than live another day back home plagued with his guilt and self-loathing._

_Derek swallows dryly, his throat sticking and his tongue feeling like sandpaper. He’s killed men in the line of duty before, but never like this. Never up close like this. Derek doesn’t want to look back at the stranger on the other side of his 9mm pistol, but he does anyway, unable to stop himself. The momentary sound of static pierces the air,_

_“…Execute to follow…Regroup fireteam ASAP…Dispatch detainee…” The voice crackles over the CB radio, and Sgt. Carter snatches it up, his eyes scanning their surroundings,_

_“Wilco.” He replies, short and curt, and Derek feels his palm sweating, the grip on his gun a tight vice._

_“Fuck, Hale!” He can hear his sergeant yell at him, “We gotta go, soldier! They’ll have their whole fucking air force on our ass in minutes! Let’s go!” Sgt. Carver nearly screams at him._

_“I’m not a fucking_ executioner _!” Derek snaps back, unable to keep the words from tumbling out of his mouth, desperate.  
Damon is posted by the landing, where he has a clear view of the surrounding area; he turns to look back at Derek, his look sympathetic but hard,_

_“Incoming insurgents. On foot.” Damon says, and his voice is calm as he sidles back to take cover behind a wall; he watches movement off in the distance and has his M60 machine gun hoisted and ready._

_Sgt. Carter glares at Derek, his eyes cold,_

_“You joined the army, kid. What did you think you were going to end up doing out here?” He says levelly, and nods toward the soldier, “It’s cleared, Hale. We need to split and we don’t have the time or manpower to drag his ass with us. Finish it.”_

_Damon shifts from where he’s positioned, gun trained on the enemy, following their movement,_

_“Running out of time, Sarge.” Damon informs him, voice low. Sgt. Carter turns back to Derek and shakes his head,_

_“It’s him or us.” He says and Derek clicks the safety off his pistol, looks back at the man at his feet._

_“Ok.” He says, “Ok.” He can wrap his head around that, he can._

_But just as he pulls the trigger, it’s no longer a stranger on the receiving end of his gun._

_It’s Cora._

_And it’s as if everything is in slow motion now, and Derek feels his stomach plummet and his mouth fall open in a desperate cry._

_It’s his sister staring back him, with her big honey-brown eyes, wide with disbelief and shock. She’s as beautiful as Derek remembers her, but in that moment the look on his sister’s face morphs into something ugly and betrayed, and Derek can’t help but think to himself,_ I’ve put that look on her face, I’ve done this to her…

 _Derek watches the bullet rip through her forehead and feels the sick warmth of his sister’s blood as it splatters over him_. She’s dead, she’s dead, I killed her…

Derek jolts awake in the dead of night and sucks in a violent breath of air. His throat is dry and hoarse from yelling in his sleep. His body is drenched in sweat, and the adrenaline and complete, utter terror is seizing his body in a constricting, unbearable grip he can’t seem to get out of. His body shakes as he swallows down air and he can’t tell the difference between the tears streaming down his cheeks and the sweat falling from his brow.

“Oh no, no, no…” He chants, groaning as a familiar nausea consumes him as the epinephrine slowly bleeds out of his body, leaving him feeling stripped down, bare, shivering uncontrollably. Slowly he realizes where he is and recognizes the familiar pain blossom in his chest, like a physical marker of the nightmare’s scarring hold on his psyche.

He sees he’s still on the couch, in his parent’s studio. Sarah either wasn’t woken up by his cries or she can’t be bothered to get up. Derek is fine with either; he always pushed her away after his nightmares and after a while she quit trying to comfort him.

As he runs a hand through his dark hair, he suddenly realizes he feels impossibly wet, and not from his profuse sweating, which is now cooling like ice against his skin. He pushes the blankets back and curses in disgust and shame; he’s pissed himself.

“Fuck.” His jaw is clenched so tight he wants it to break, “ _Fuck._ ” He’s miserable as he throws the blankets off and assesses the damage, feeling repulsive.

He takes care of the bedding and makes his way to the bathroom where he yanks the shower on, turning the knob all the way so the water that comes out is scorching hot.

In the sudden, harsh light of the bathroom, Derek sees a wrecked, pathetic man staring back at him in the mirror; but it’s not the only thing he sees.

There’s a flash of Cora in his mind’s eye, and he squeezes his eyes shut, as if that would help. Guilt shakes his frame as he hunches over, and his tears splash the white porcelain of the sink.

 _I trusted you, Derek, I trusted you…_ He hears her voice as if she were standing right beside him, and he slams his fist as hard as he can into the granite countertop.

_I trusted you…_


	4. Chapter 4

Beacon Hills is bathed in the warm afterglow of a particularly hot day, but with the sun now set, the McCalls escape to the backyard where an evening breeze is starting to pick up. The four enjoy a delicious dinner out on the deck and are now sitting around lazily, sipping iced tea, beers, and, in the case of Scott and Stiles, still wolfing down third and fourth helpings of Cindy’s fantastic home cooking. Stiles feels slightly buzzed from two and a half beers and ridiculously content, his stomach full of enough lasagna and breadsticks to feed an army.

“Still a bottomless pit.” Cindy had pointed out the last time she filled up his plate; he hadn’t been able to argue with that and opted to just grin sheepishly instead, a slightly apologetic look on his face.

After a while, they start milling around the backyard and wander in and out of the house, their easy conversations chased with plenty of laughter and good-natured ribbing.

Scott and Stiles help Cindy bring the dishes back into the house, and Allison and Frank talk about life in Chicago and her love of painting. Once the dishes are deposited in the sink, Scott and Stiles head back outside where Stiles and Frank get distracted catching up on the highlights of a recent Mets game on Stiles’ iPhone.

Mets captain David Wright manages to collect a home run and a double, and Frank and Stiles explode into loud cheers, but as the final score eventually comes up 2-5, leaving St. Louis with the win, Stiles ends up slumping down in his seat,

“Damn Cardinals…” He hisses and Frank mutters under his breath about Wright’s dry spell. Cindy comes out and gives them a disapproving stare as she catches the tail end of their little fit.

“Hey!” Cindy says abruptly to Scott and Allison as she’s taking a seat again, “I just remembered, we have the cabin Stiles can use while you’re all in town.” She grins at them, thoroughly pleased with her suggestion. Scott looks piqued and he slowly nods his head in agreement; the McCall’s house would’ve already been full with just Allison and Scott visiting, and, while Stiles doesn’t exactly mind sleeping on the living room couch, he still appreciates their efforts to better accommodate him. From where Frank and Stiles are still lounging on the lawn chairs in the grass, Stiles calls over to her, a teasing glint in his eye,

“Tired of me already?” Cindy laughs at this, and Scott gives him a pointed look,

“It’s your sense of humor.” Scott replies, deadpan, “No one can stand it.” And Stiles pretends to look offended before shooting back,

“That’s not completely my fault. It only gets unbearable when Frank and I are in the same room.” He complains and bumps Frank with his elbow.

“You guys do crack jokes like a couple of middle school boys when you get together…” Scott informs them as if it should be obvious; Stiles shares a knowing look with Frank and pretends like Scott has just paid them an incredible compliment,

“Only because we have to pick up your guys’ slack. So suck it up.” Frank insists around a grin, and Stiles gets a sneaky smirk on his face,

“That’s what she said…” He blurts, and Scott glares at him,

“Did you seriously just make a ‘that’s-what-she-said’ joke right now? Scott’s point stands.” Allison laughs until her sides hurt, and Stiles holds his hands up as if to say, _what am I supposed to do?_

“Besides, ‘that’s-what-she-said’ doesn’t really work…”

“Well, ok, maybe that’s what _he_ said then…” Stiles offers, dead serious, and Scott blanches,

“God, Stiles!” He snaps, “That’s enough ‘that’s-what she-and-he-saids’!”

“Well, I gotta live up to my rap, right? Middle school humor?” Stiles demands and Frank rolls with laughter.

“You two are _unbelievable_.” Cindy says to Stiles and her husband, but without any heat; she has a small but surprised grin playing across her lips. She gets up again to wander back into the house, saying something about getting the dishes into the dishwasher; Allison offers to help, but Cindy won’t hear of it and ushers her to sit back and relax.

“We are pretty unbelievable, aren’t we?” Frank says to Stiles, who is thoroughly amused with the idea and intent on keeping the comedic banter alive,

“Yeah, we are. I guess that’s the price to pay in order to be the kings of juvenile humor.” Stiles replies, and adds with exaggerated sympathy, “They don’t understand us, but it’s ok. We still have each other.”

“We’re so compatible!” Frank remarks, a crooked grin suddenly lighting up on his face; he then spontaneously loops his arm through Stiles’ and adds devilishly, “You know, Stiles, I think we make a pretty great couple.”

Stiles’ mouth drops wide open and his eyebrows crawl up his forehead in complete surprise,

“Did your dad really just make a pretend move on me….?” Stiles asks, incredulous, and looks over in Scott’s horrified direction. Frank chuckles and winks at Stiles, urging him to go along with the gag; Stiles isn’t even sure what in the whole wide world prompted Frank to pull this one out of his hat, but suddenly Stiles is all on board with the joke, looking brilliantly mischievous,

“Cindy, I’m eloping with your husband! Just thought you should know!” He yells into the house where Cindy is in the kitchen. His voice is wickedly gleeful, and he tightens his arm around Frank’s; Allison hides her laughter behind her hands as Scott gawks at the two as if they were an act in a circus freak show.

“You can have him!” Cindy shouts back, hardly fazed at all, which earns an impressed burst of laughter from Stiles and a defeated groan from Frank.

“Tough love.” Stiles nudges Frank sympathetically and Frank wiggles his eyebrows up and down, finally disentangling their arms.

Scott still sits, thoroughly appalled, and buries his head in his hands; in an amused whisper only Allison can hear, he murmurs,

“Jesus Christ…” then louder to Stiles and his dad, “Do you know how _disturbing_ that is?” He cries, humorously distressed, and Stiles saunters over to Scott, slapping him on the shoulder with one hand,

“You’re right, Scott,” Stiles gives an embellished sigh, and says, tongue in cheek, “I can do much better.” He can’t completely hide his grin though and Scott turns in his seat to shove Stiles off the deck. Stiles goes flailing backwards, his laughter ringing in the air, clear and true,

“Okay, _fine._ ” Stiles jokes, “Do you maybe have a cousin who swings my way or something…?” And Scott gives him an incredulous smile,

“Even if I did, I wouldn’t subject them to you. You’re insane!” He laughs, and Stiles gives him a playful glare,

“Who do you think I take notes from? You’re the craziest mofo I know.” He snorts, “It’s an art form with you, I swear.” He comes back to hit Scott lightly on the shoulder, and Scott looks only momentarily snubbed.

“Asshole,” Scott rolls his eyes, “did I tell you yet that the only friends you’ll have out there in my grandparents’ cabin are fuckin’ bears? I promise, you’ll be out in the middle of nowhere with nothing but your smartass mouth. And bears.”

“I take it not the good kind.” Stiles snickers and Scott’s eyes bulge,

“Man, don’t even.” He huffs around a silly grin, just as Cindy comes out again carrying an enormous strawberry cheesecake.

“Am I going to have to put you kids in time out?” She exclaims as she sets the cake down,

“Oh, _please_ , no.” Stiles groans as he stares longingly at the dessert, “Not after bringing cheesecake out. I swear I’ll be on my best behavior.” And Cindy swats his hand away as he attempts to swipe one of the strawberries off the top.

“If you’re really good, I’ll even send some of it over with you when you go out to the cabin. Assuming there will be any left.” She promises sweetly as she hands Frank the knife to cut it. Stiles immediately clasps his hands in his lap and pretends to look like a complete angel,

“Not convincing,” Allison tells him lightheartedly, and he glares over at her with the tiniest smile on his lips,

“Cindy loves me unconditionally, therefore I don’t have to try all that hard to be convincing.” He reasons, and Cindy gives him an unimpressed look as she hands Scott a plate to send around; as he’s passing it to Stiles he pretends to lose his grip on it, and Stiles nearly jumps out of his seat,

“Oops.” Scott snickers, “If you’re not careful, I might accidentally dump this in your lap or something.” Stiles glowers at him and quickly pulls the plate out of his grasp,

“Dude, don’t even think about it.” He mutters and shoves a gigantic forkful of cake into his mouth.

# ▲▼▲▼▲▼

It’s his mother’s idea to host a party in order to “properly” welcome him home, and while Derek is ready to die at the thought, he can’t bring himself to ask his mother not to. She's too happy about the idea, unaware that a party is the absolute last thing Derek could ever want. Sarah also seems to have been excited by the idea of seeing her old high school friends, and Derek can’t afford to alienate her more after the other night’s events. And so he keeps his mouth firmly shut and the growing panic somehow at bay.

He stays out of the house for most of the day, sitting by the lake and keeping out of the way of Liz and Sarah as they come and go in a flurry of preparation; his mother comes over to him once to drop off a sandwich and chips for lunch before informing him she’s going into town to pick up supplies. He watches her walk across the lawn to her car and can’t help but feel that she’s doing this out of spite; as hard as he tries to hide it, it must be written pretty clearly across his face how badly he wants to steer clear of anything party-related and to avoid the neighbors and family-friends who will soon be flocking to their home, like sightseers to a zoo.

He doesn’t want to see familiar faces, and he doesn’t want to have to talk to them, to explain himself, and to recount the wretched years they’ve missed out on in cloying, sugar-coated detail. He knows the only reason they must be coming over in the first place is to assess for themselves the kind of man he’s become, and he knows exactly how they’ll feel when they see him: disappointed, always disappointed. He feels like a freak, a monster, waiting to be paraded around for all to see, and he swallows back the disgusting shame that rises like bile in the back of his throat.

As the hours pass on, Sarah doesn’t bother to come out to see how he’s doing, and Derek doesn’t feel the inclination to get up to go check on her. Every so often, he glances at the house from where he’s sitting under the shade of a willow tree, the bank of the lake cool under his bare feet. He wonders fleetingly what she might be doing inside, what she might be thinking, but he doesn’t feel interested or concerned like he knows he should.

They haven’t talked much since the other night; she hasn’t even bothered to ask him about the wadded up bedding he’d shoved in a plastic bag and left by the door. He’s sure that it isn’t out of any sense of respectful propriety that she hasn’t asked, but probably because she doesn’t care. Even this realization doesn’t affect him like he thinks it should; instead of being bothered, he feels desensitized, unmoored from any capability to feel an emotion appropriate for a boyfriend, a fiancé, a lover. For a brief moment, Derek wonders if he has become incapable of feeling anything other than varying shades of crippling anxiety and bottomless sorrow, but, after lingering on it too long, all he’s left with is the fact that there is no answer to such an uncertainty. All he can ever do is wonder.

 

When Derek looks at himself in the mirror, he’s surprised to find that he doesn’t look as bad as he feels. He’s pulled on a decent white button-up shirt over a pair of dark wash jeans, and he even bothered to shave. As he’s fiddling with the buttons of his shirt on autopilot, he stares at his face in the mirror with a critical eye: he has a few wrinkles creasing his forehead, wrinkles he wasn’t fully aware of before; his features seem perpetually set in a somber, stern expression, and he tries out a smile, then quickly wipes it off his face. He still has dark circles under his eyes, but he hopes the low lighting in the backyard where he’ll be fulfilling most of his social obligations will be dim enough to hide it.

When he makes his way up to the house from the studio, he can see a few neighbors already wandering about, drinks in their hands, smiles on their lips. His mother appears by the glass sliding doors, looking as beautiful and put-together as Derek ever remembered her in the past; she comes down and Derek sees the smile she has on her face is somewhat reserved, tense. _What, mother, do you think I’ll somehow manage to fuck up your little barbecue…?_ He wonders, and returns her slightly aloof expression with a cool grin of his own. Liz determines he looks “presentable”, and she tugs at his collar, yearning to straighten something out that’s already perfectly fine. Derek mirrors her restlessness.

“Your father’s on his way back from the airport with Laura,” She says out of nowhere, and it’s something of a warning, Derek recognizes. _Play nice with your sister. Don’t make a scene._ He’s sure this is exactly what she would say if she had half the chance. Her tone is pleasant enough, but only because they are now within earshot of their neighbor, Mr. Taylor, who is making his way over to them, a huge smile splitting across his face,

“Derek Hale!” He exclaims, and he shakes Derek’s hand with a vigor that nearly knocks Derek off his feet, “Good God! You’re huge!” Mr. Taylor’s laugh is deep and gruff and annoyingly loud, but Derek can’t help but chuckle; he has always liked Mr. Taylor and his wife Judy. They live a couple houses down the street, and they've always been present in the Hale children’s lives in some way or another throughout the years. Derek has always enjoyed Taylor’s sense of humor and the fact that he can’t remember ever seeing Taylor without a crooked smile on his face. And as Derek looks at him now, he sees nothing but genuine pleasure and excitement in the older man’s face,

“Mr. Taylor,” Derek replies cordially, his voice warm; he appreciates the fact that Taylor would open with such a whimsical and unexpected remark after nearly ten years. Derek claps Taylor on the shoulder and flexes one impressive bicep as a joke,

“I have to keep up with you.” He says adamantly, getting back to the original quirky greeting. Taylor is a big man, but time has weathered down muscles that once belonged to a young man, and all the years of Judy’s fantastic cooking have clearly caught up with him in the meantime. Taylor guffaws,

“Well, you better stop there, son, otherwise you’ll be getting one of these!” He indicates his protruding stomach with a couple solid pats, and Derek laughs with him.

It feels good to laugh; it feels good to laugh _for real_. The banter he shares with some of the neighbors and old friends—people he has known all his life, people he loves—comes incredibly easy and a small knot of tension unfurls in Derek’s chest, hopeful and fluttering.

 

He makes his way around the backyard until he’s greeted everyone there: the immediate neighbors Mr. and Mrs. Taylor, Jack Lau and his wife Rachael, Harl Dench and his eldest son Shaun, who is now seventeen—

“ _Seventeen?_ ” Derek had repeated, his incredulity somewhat exaggerated for the awkward teen’s benefit. He had pulled the boy into a loose headlock and ruffled the kid’s hair as he struggled to get away,  
“I remember when you were still a snot-nosed brat in _diapers!_ ” Derek teased fondly and Shaun had twisted out of his grasp, a small, shy smile on the boy’s pimply face—

Then there were a couple family-friends and a few more distant acquaintances: Mark and Ann Stone, John’s friends from work; and Stewart Renshaw, who had been Derek’s little league baseball coach as a kid, was here with his daughter, Macy; then there was Linda Gonzales, an old colleague of his mother’s from her nursing days, and her husband Julio. They were all pleasant and conversational, seeming to be genuinely happy to seem him again. And it’s not that Derek didn’t expect a warm welcome, it’s just that he can see in their sidelong glances and some of the tight-lipped silences between their words that they still have lingering questions and uncertainties, perhaps because they don’t know how to treat him or what to expect from him. The Derek Hale standing before them is certainly not the one that they knew ten years ago, and they can feel it like a continual itch under their skin, know it as clearly as if the two different Dereks were standing side-by-side right in front of them.

Besides some of his parent’s friends, there is a small cluster of his old high school friends as well, and Derek doesn’t like having them there. the discomfort is more noticeable with them, the way they look at him and can’t seem to reconcile the fun-loving, adventurous, smiling teen they once knew so well with the unpredictable man that’s returned. They can’t seem to grasp that the boy who had once been so many different things to them ( fellow troublemaker, ex-crush, teammate...) is now a complete stranger. There’s Luke and David, who had enjoyed four years of varsity sports with Derek; Emily and Vanessa, with Emily being an amicable ex-sweetheart and Vanessa one of Laura’s younger friends, and thus, by extension, his; and Ben, Haley, and Trent, who had all been some of the closest friends Derek had ever had in his life. They were also Sarah’s friends as well, with Haley still being her best friend and faithful confidante.

Sarah is most certainly happy to see all their old friends, but it's painfully clear that there is still some tension between them all, especially with Derek; it's as if the past is still too fresh for them. Despite a somewhat awkward start, Derek shares some pleasant conversations and admirably roots around for some fun memories to dredge up,

“…Man, you remember when we got wasted the night before the last game of the season? Right on the fucking _field?_ ” Derek remembers suddenly as they’re recalling the highlights of their football years. David nearly chokes on a mouthful of beer, and Trent grabs his knees as he begins to laugh his ass off,

“Oh, fucking hell,” Luke groans, “That was the worst hangover I’ve ever had in my entire life.” Trent is wiping his eyes from laughing so hard, his cheeks red with alcohol and lack of oxygen,

“Yeah, man, coach was so pissed when they found puke in the Astroturf…” He wheezes,

“Thank God it wasn’t a home game.” Derek grins, “...Did we even win?”

“How the fuck should I know, man?” Trent chuckles, “The only thing I remember is being scared shitless ‘cause I thought I was gonna die of alcohol poisoning or something.” Ben walks up to them, catching the tail end of their conversation; he slaps Trent on the shoulder, extra hard,

“It’s a real shame you didn’t.” He says nonchalantly and Trent elbows him in the ribs with a broad grin, but not before stealing his beer.

 

There’s a point during the evening where Derek finds himself up on the deck. He has a plate of ribs and potato salad in his hand, and he’s watching as people come and go out of the house, mingle on the grass, laugh on the porch steps. He can honestly say he’s been enjoying himself. That is until Mark goes to pop open the big cooler full of drinks they have on the deck and turns to Derek to offer him a beer.

It’s as if the whole party stops dead, and all Derek can see is his mother’s head swivel around to stare at him, her wide eyes hard and cold as ice. He doesn’t know what he sees in them, but whatever it is, it scares him, sends a terrifying shiver down his spine. Derek tears his eyes away from his mother and sees that it’s just been her watching him; if anyone else found Mark’s gesture particularly concerning, they were doing a good job of not showing it. He swallows thickly and turns to Mark, forcing a smile onto his lips,

“Uh, thanks, Mark, but I’ll just have a…” He peers into the cooler, fighting to concentrate, “…club soda, or something.” Mark has the decency not to make any remark at all, and he puts the beer back. As he hands Derek the club soda, he gives him a strangely reassuring smile and Derek feels a mix of humiliation and thankfulness heat his cheeks. He’s quick to move himself off the deck now and into the growing darkness on the lawn. He can sense his mother’s gaze on him at times, the feeling searing into the back of his skull; it makes the untouched club soda in his hand feel like a bomb instead of a harmless carbonated beverage. He wants to turn to her and challenge her, to force her to give him a fucking break! Of all the things in the world, all Derek wants is for her to let him free from the prison she holds him in…but he can’t. He knows he’d only be exchanging one prison for another, if he hasn’t already, and that’s his own.

 

Derek is standing in the grass with Sarah tucked under his arm; they’ve been friendly enough to each other, slight touches and small kisses here and there, but Derek doesn’t know if it’s just for show of if she’s forgiven him for being an ass. They’re talking with Haley and Trent, the two of them looking relaxed and maybe a bit tipsy; it makes Derek a little queasy and irritated, and he finds himself zoning in and out of their conversation, letting Sarah pick up the slack. Haley’s voice, pitched a bit higher with excitement, draws him back into whatever topic of discussion is going on,

“…You guys should have the wedding here!” She exclaims, holding Sarah’s hand up into the light so she can see the ring; the diamond still glitters in the sparse light and Derek feels his throat tighten. Sarah looks very delighted at the attention, and Derek thinks briefly that maybe she’s more in love with the idea of being married than actually in love with him.

“We haven’t really looked at all our options…” He says lamely, and Sarah gives him a fast glance,

“But that’s a great idea! I love it.” She adds, and she sounds like she really does. It makes Derek impossibly nervous.

“I know, right! It’s a _lake_ out in the countryside!” Haley gushes, “It’ll be so romantic!” She smiles broadly and wraps her arms around Trent, as if to give him a clue. He wraps an arm around her as well and chuckles, his head dipping down to kiss the top of her head. The gesture is small and not particularly indicative of much in and of itself, but Derek can see the look in Trent’s eyes, adoring and tender. He can’t think of the last time he looked at Sarah that way.

He disentangles himself from Sarah and murmurs something about getting another drink; when he offers to get something for Sarah, she just shakes her head, her smile doing little to hide the pain and frustration Derek can see in her expression. He walks into the house, making sure to steer clear of the guests, and stands in a quiet corner of the kitchen for a long moment. He has his hand poised on the fridge, so it’ll look like he’s in the middle of doing something if someone walks in, but his eyes are trained unseeingly on the closed cupboard in front of him.

He’s had enough. He feels the pain in his chest double now that he’s taking a moment to pay attention to it; he also feels a tiredness creep into his bones, making his muscles ache and his eyelids feel heavy. He’s so done with all this. He just wants to be done.

“Derek?” He immediately recognizes the voice before he sees her, and his whole body tenses up. A strange sort of anxiety seizes him; the panic is not necessarily new, but this flavor of it is unfamiliar and frightening. He doesn’t want to see her, he doesn’t want to look at her… But of course he does anyway.

Laura has changed a lot over the years. She looks like an exceptionally well-adjusted woman instead of the laissez-faire girl he knew in his past; her hair is much shorter now, but still dark, as dark as his own, and her features are a bit more angular, mature. Her eyes, as Derek brings his up to meet hers, are mostly the same; it’s definitely Laura Hale standing in front of him, even though he still doesn't quite recognize her. 

He remembers the bright eyes of a young girl, of his obnoxious sister who never ceased to remind him that she was the oldest, that she knew everything about everything, but now all he sees is the gaze of a visitor he hardly knows at all. There's still a remnant of the sister he knew in her stare, a trace of the familiarity they once shared, but it’s shrouded by an unyielding, systematic glint, like she’s looking at a particularly difficult mystery that needs to be analyzed and picked apart.

“Derek.” She says again, and steps down into the kitchen. He still hasn’t moved, except to turn around and stare at her. A smile creeps onto her lips, dark red with lipstick, and he thinks it looks kind of antagonistic, challenging.

“Laura.” He manages, and he watches her carefully as she comes up to him and pulls him into a hug. He doesn’t recognize her perfume, but underneath that she still smells like his sister; it’s both comforting and frighteningly strange. She pulls away to look at him, her face close to his, and he’s surprised by the sadness he sees in her eyes; not the sadness he’s used to seeing in others, but a wistfulness that seems soft in a way, a sorrow that she's saved exclusively for him and not for what he’s done...

“I’ve been waiting a long time to see that ugly face of yours again, brother.” She chuckles a little, a quiet hitched breath of laughter, and she catches his face between her hands and kisses his cheek. Derek feels an overwhelming emotion suddenly hit him and he pulls her back into a tight embrace; he thinks it may be love that he's feeling, an intense, deep appreciation for this woman, even if she may be more of a stranger now than anything else. He’s trying to hold his tears back and bites his lip so hard he can taste the coppery sting of blood.

“Laura…” Once again he finds himself at a loss for words; he wants to say so much, but doesn’t know where to start, doesn’t know what exactly he wants to say, what he _needs_ to say. She hushes him with another laugh and pulls away just far enough to slide her arm through his own,

“What a party, huh?” She says, distracting him from the things they both know are still left untouched between them, “Mom’s still got it.” She adds, and Derek notices that her tone is a little dry, a little cynical. He chuckles, the grin on his face wavering slightly; he doesn’t know what to think anymore, his brain feels scrambled.

 

The Hale house is still busy with people, their laughter loud and their conversations hushed. Derek can taste the slightly uncomfortable aura hovering over all their heads, especially now that all the Hales are present. He is hyper-aware of the slanted looks his parents’ neighbors sometimes give them when they think he isn’t watching, but Laura does a good job of pretending everything is fine, her smile pretty and wide, her eyes bright as she greets everyone. As she makes her rounds, she pulls Derek with her, their shoulders constantly brushing; he doesn’t know whether this is comforting or nerve-wracking. Part of him wants to dash off into the darkness, to run all the way around the lake and escape into the woods where he can be completely alone; the other part of him seems to be morbidly fascinated by the social gathering and the fact that the sister he hasn’t seen in more years than he cares to count is pulling him along as if he were still just her “baby brother”, a mere child.

As they’re moving away from one group and on to the next, Laura leans into him, her voice low,

“Ugh, I’m already tired of this.” But the smile on her lips tells Derek she isn’t completely serious,

“I know the feeling. Trust me.” He growls and is somewhat surprised by the sharp note in his tone. She glances at him for a lingering moment, her expression unreadable, but then she reverts back to her beaming façade,

“It’s nice, but…” He grimaces, looking for the right word, a word that won’t give too much away in one breath, “…exhausting.” She tightens her hold on his arm,

“It’s _convenient_ , is what it is.” She replies, her voice hard. _It's convenient for mother..._ is what Derek hears behind her words, and he turns to study her for a moment before letting a long breath out, his gaze moving off to look somewhere out over the dark water,

“Yeah. It is.” He agrees, but Laura can tell he doesn’t want to hear anymore about it. This frustrates her a bit, the annoyance flaring in her like a spark, threatening to ignite a fire she’s trying to keep buried down. It can wait, she assures herself.

 

Some time in the late evening, Derek, Sarah, and Laura find themselves seated in lawn chairs, surrounded by their close friends, laughing and joking, whittling away the hours until who knows when. Haley is sitting by Sarah, with Trent on her other side, of course, and the others have all kind of deposited themselves according to recent affiliations Derek has a hard time understanding, which he doesn't find all that surprising. He hadn't been around to watch their relationships change and develop; he hadn't been around to see how Haley and Trent had gotten together, or how Luke and David had opened that auto body shop like they’d always talked about in high school, or how David had married Luke’s sister, Abby, nearly a year ago now, or how Vanessa and Emily had gone off to UCLA and bonded over small-town revelries, or how Ben had hooked Trent up with a job at Intel and now they saw each other practically every day… He doesn’t know these people’s lives anymore, not like he used to, and it’s kind of unnerving.

Derek sits quietly for the most part; it’s enough for him to just watch his friends laugh and joke from the sidelines. Every once in a while he’ll jump in with his own story, a memory of a prank here or a party there. These topics of conversation are easy and, above all else, safe.

But as the banter slowly dies down, and everyone, except Derek, looks like they’ve had plenty to drink, Ben leans over towards him, propping himself up with his elbows on his knees, and says, his voice a bit unsure,

“So, man…what was it like?” And the rest of the group goes stock still, their eyes unblinking as they look to Derek, watching him carefully. Derek had expected something like this, had been surprised actually that it'd taken so long to come up, but it still doesn’t stop the irritation from welling up in his chest. Ben looks kind of sheepish but well enough on his way to being drunk that he doesn’t have enough sense to drop it,

“I mean, dude, you got _shot_. That’s…scary as fuck.” And Derek has to clench his teeth to keep from telling Ben he can just shut the fuck up. Sarah shifts next to him, her hand tightening around his own; the others look uncomfortable, and not one of them will meet Derek’s eyes. He takes a silent breath, willing his nerves to die down, and he tries to find that place in himself where he’ll feel nothing.

“What was it like?” He repeats the initial question, “It fuckin’ hurt like hell, you dumbass. What do you think it was like?” And although Derek wants to spit the words in a vehement rage, they come out teasingly and on the heels of a forced laugh. The others chuckle with him, and he can see they’ve been put a bit more at ease. He catches Laura’s guarded eyes for a moment as he shifts in his seat but can’t look at her for long.

“…It all happened so fast, man,” He shakes his head, tries to play it down, “I don’t really remember much.” That's a lie. He remembers every goddamn second of it. He wets his lips, studies the grass at his feet for a long moment,

“…We were stationed in the middle of fucking nowhere, a small outpost in Takhāb.” He starts…

 _What Derek sees is a landscape of burnt sienna and cruel shades of sepia; everywhere he looks it’s the same. When he sucks in a deep, labored breath, his throat feels as if it’s been scorched, raw with the oppressive heat; sand whips into his eyes and stings his bare hands and forearms like the pinprick of a million needles. Sweat trickles into his eyes and rolls down his back, soaking the shirt beneath the body armor strapped tight over his chest. The adrenaline and fear coursing through his body makes the perspiration sticking to his skin feel as cold as ice despite the blazing sun overhead. In the distance, he can see the heat waves roiling over the sandy cracked asphalt, thick and relentless, and he hopes to God it won’t be the last thing he sees._

_He’s only slightly aware that he’s running, and even less sure of where he’s going; out of the corner of his eye, he can see the rest of his unit—Damon and Joey a blur of dusty camouflage off to his left—as they make a beeline for an abandoned building across the street. He blinks desperately, trying to stay focused; it’s as if his line of sight is stuck in a strange tunnel vision and he can see sparks flash behind his eyes because his heart’s hammering so fast in his chest. He feels like he’s going to pass out at any moment but knows he can’t, knows he’ll be dead if he does._

_There’s a big, gaping hole in the building from where a bomb had detonated in the street right outside, and Derek barely clears the crumbling ledge of a wall in his effort to get out of the line of fire. Damon is quick on his heels, as well as several other men in their unit. Derek brings his assault rifle up and is quick to level his sights on a sliver of an insurgent in the distance._

_The man is half hidden by an army truck, and Derek knows a shot at this angle wouldn’t prove fatal, so he fights the urge to pull the trigger for half a second longer and sucks in a sharp, steadying breath when the man makes the mistake of peering out from around the corner. The shot rings out and the man staggers back for a fraction of a second before crumpling to the floor; in the same second, a flurry of bullets is let loose on them and Derek jerks back into the corner of the room, the others do the same. Derek feels his ears ringing with the sound of gunfire and a shiver crawls up his spine, raising the hair on the back of his neck._

_“Where the fuck’s Joe?” He barks, suddenly aware of how few men have made it out of the ambush; Joey had been right there with him only a moment ago. His gaze flicks over to Damon, who’s occupying the corner across from him, the barrel of his M4 steadied on the edge of the collapsed wall. Damon gives a small shake of his head, his lips pressed into a tight line._

_Derek turns to peer out into the street again and sees a body lying facedown in the dirt; the helmet is tilted at an odd angle and Derek recognizes the blonde hair underneath, matted with dark blood. He grits his teeth and wills the panic rising in his throat back down._ Fuck, fuck, fuck…

_“Ok,” He takes a deep breath before shuffling over to the back of the room where he glances briefly out a poorly shuttered window. There’s a single road leading out of town back there, and nothing but sand and desert brush littered with explosives. Something occurs to Derek in that moment, and he rushes to edge back around the rubble until his shoulder bumps the next wall. He stares back at his men, calculating their chances,_

_“They’re herding us out in this direction like fuckin’ sheep for a reason.” he licks his lips; he thinks he might be doing a convincing job of keeping it together, but his nerves are wracked, “They’re hoping to drive us right over those fuckin’ IEDs they’ve got out back.” The men hardly look relieved to hear the news,_

_“That’s fuckin’ great.” Damon mutters, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his usual calm ready to shatter._

_“That_ is _fuckin’ great!” Derek exclaims, “If they have to rely on some goddamn IEDs to finish the job, it means we outnumber them.” As if he’d been moving in slow motion before, suddenly Derek completely snaps into gear. He turns to scan their surroundings, knowing there’s little time for escape. He trains his sights on the skeletal remains of the ceiling above them from where the roof has buckled in,_

_“Shit. We gotta move now. Otherwise we wait here too long and all it’ll take is for one of them to get close enough to toss a frag over the top and we’re fucking done.” He says and immediately begins sizing up the men he has left. The others look up to assess the lack of protection; there’s definitely an overabundance of sky above, and Derek watches with a sympathetic eye as the rookie, Vince “Baby” Brooks, doubles over and pukes._

_“Damon, take Locke, Keats, and Brooks, and get your asses to that Humvee up the street, but stay the fuck out of sight. Call this shit in and get the hell out of here.” Derek pushes himself off the wall and squats down so he’s still hidden from view,_

_“I’ll take Ross and Briggs and run interference.” He nods toward a multi-storied building across the way. There are a couple figures visible in the upper windows, out of range, but noticeable. “The fuckers are holed up there. It’s the tallest building in the area, best vantage point.” The men begin breaking off into their respective groups._

_The next thing Derek knows, they’ve cleared the building and are in the middle of the street, hopping from one car to the next under a constant flood of gunfire. Derek watches as Ross slides around the front of a Toyota truck and crouches down by the back tire; he pulls the trigger on his M-16 assault rifle and takes out another guerrilla. When Derek turns to look up the street, he can’t see Damon and the rest of his men, but he can barely see the back end of the Humvee from around the corner._ God, please make it, you son-of-a-bitch...

_Derek feels the adrenaline pick up in his system again, and from here on out it’s like he sees things in momentary flashes of action. Suddenly they’ve made it into the building across the street, the darkness burning his eyes after the bright sun outside. Suddenly Briggs is down, blood seeping from a gunshot wound low in his gut. The insurgents are starting to scatter, but Derek has enough time to pull the pin on a grenade and toss it into the next room where he knows a couple of unsuspecting insurgents are still keeping post at the windows. Derek has just enough time to nearly throw himself back down the stairs and behind a solid wall before the grenade goes off._

_Everything falls quiet, and the world seems shrouded in smoke and dust. Derek shakes out his limbs, tries to hear around the loud hum ringing in his head. He finds himself stumbling out of the building again, feeling like jello. He can spot Ross ahead of him, skirting around a tank, still on the look out. Derek can’t believe they’re still alive, and his smile is almost hysterical as he meets Ross’ gaze. Just as things are starting to slow down for Derek, his hammering heart and unsteady breaths beginning to even out, he hears the_ snick _of a sniper’s gun and pain suddenly explodes in his chest._

_His body lurches backward and he looks down to find blood oozing from the hole ripped in his body armor. Derek can feel the goddamn bullet still lodged somewhere in his chest. He’s vaguely aware of gunfire, probably Ross’, and voices, the heavy metallic growl of an engine rumbling their way; then there’s just sky above his head, the sun blinding him. He fades in and out for a while, lightheaded from not getting enough oxygen. It hurts so bad to breathe, so he doesn’t bother..._

_“Hang in there!” He hears someone say, but they sound so far away. He doesn't want to 'hang in there', so he pays them no attention..._

_Derek lets the extraordinary pain in his body cradle him, and he closes his eyes to the world. He’s not surprised at all by how easily he resigns himself to the idea of death. He’s relieved by it, welcomes it…_

_For the first time in what seems like forever he feels entirely calm and in control. There’s no fear, no anxiety, no guilt, no sorrow… Just relief._

 

“…And, then, you know, the doctors patched me back up, good as new…” Derek finishes, his tone deceptively buoyant and sounding dangerously carefree. He had skirted around pretty much everything and chose to paint a simple picture of a simple man with a simple bullet wound, and nothing more. They don’t need to know how monumentally disappointed he had felt when he finally woke up in the hospital. They don’t need to know how completely wrecked he had been for the first couple of months right after, how completely wrecked he _still_ is.

The others look at him for a long time, their gazes skittish, hands fidgeting; they don’t know what to say. Finally, Vanessa scoots forward and pats his knee, a tentative smile lighting up her face,

“Well, we’re glad you made it back home safe and sound, Derek.” He returns her smile and briefly takes her hand. _I’m not,_ he thinks, but he can’t say it. After that, their conversations steer clear of anything else remotely serious, and Derek feels himself relax somewhat. Well, not relax, because he’s never relaxed, but he feels himself revert back to a lesser state of constant anxiety, one that doesn’t quite make him feel like he’s about to implode or go out of his mind as badly as he usually does.

He still has to excuse himself from their small group, making some excuse to get dessert or take a piss or something; he can’t remember what he said. He wanders out towards the lake, the cover of night darker at its banks; there’s a cool breeze coming in off the water and it centers him a bit, makes him feel less feverish. As he stares out over the water, desperate to catch a break, to be able to take a deep breath, he sees the unmistakable twinkle of lights on the other side. He stares at them for a very long time, his brain trying to decipher them. He doesn’t remember there being much on that side of the lake, but before long, he realizes what they are: windows of a house lit up from the inside. He finally remembers that there’s a cabin out there, but he doesn’t ever recall anyone living in it. He studies it curiously and watches as a couple figures move around out there, but they’re too far away to recognize. He can also see the dull glint of a couple cars parked on the side; he thinks he can make out a white Honda Pilot and an old Ford Bronco.

He sees one of the figures walk onto the dock and stand there, looking in his direction; the person is much too far away and it's too dark to make out any detail, but Derek wonders who they are and what they see.

As he turns away to go back, he thinks it would be nice if he could be there, across the river where it’s dark and quiet. It would be nothing like the farce he has to return to; he wouldn’t have to pretend to put on a smile for people he hardly knows, and he sure as hell wouldn’t have to talk about his life like nothing more than a poorly disguised imposter.

# ▲▼▲▼▲▼

“Dude, looks like someone started the party without us!” Stiles laughs as he stands on the little rickety dock and stares out over the lake where he can see lights shimmer off the water, rippling and changing with the sluggish currents. He can hear the buzz of conversation, laughter, and music travel over to them, sounding deceptively loud and clear. Scott is standing up on the bank behind him, a box in his arms,

“Looks like it.” He agrees and moves to set the box on the cabin’s modest back porch. He runs inside the house for a second and comes back with two cold beers in hand; he skips down the steps to the dock and slides a bottle into Stiles' hand,

“That’s the last box on the back step.” Scott informs him as he stretches and rolls his shoulders; Stiles listens to Scott’s back crack, and grins,

“You’re gettin’ old, man.” He jabs, and Scott shoots him an unimpressed glare. Stiles looks back over his shoulder at the boxes and smiles,

“Thanks for all this, really.” He says, tilting his chin towards the cabin and lifting his beer in appreciation before taking another swig. Scott shakes his head, as if it’s nothing,

“Dude, don’t mention it.” He insists, giving Stiles a meaningful look, “It’s about time this place saw some action. And I don’t have to deal with you 24/7 this way.” He laughs and Stiles smirks at him.

“Well, I really do appreciate it, man. I mean, everything your family’s done for me…” He shrugs slightly, knowing he doesn’t have to say much for Scott to get his meaning. Scott stares out over the water and his features become a bit more serious,

“My family is your family.” Scott tells him, “You’re my fuckin’ _brother_ , Stiles. I’d do anything for you.” His voice is serious, committed. Stiles has to swallow a few times, and he takes a sip of his beer to ease the overwhelming emotion,

“Thanks, man.” It’s all but a whisper, “You’re really the only brother I’ve ever had…”

Stiles rouses himself from the gloomy mood threatening to take hold of him, and he zips up his jacket, feeling a chill run up the backs of his arms, giving him goose bumps,

“Who lives over there anyway?” He asks, his voice clearer, more lighthearted. Scott looks back over to the house in the distance, all lit up with strings of little white lights and leaving the smell of barbecue in the air,

“…I think the Hales live there.” He finally says. Stiles watches the people more closely now, but can’t make anyone out.

“Oh.” He says, and doesn’t feel anything in particular. A face appears in his memory for a moment, a chiseled jaw, straight dark hair just long enough to run fingers through, eyes sea green and breathtaking in the way they look so intense, like they could pierce right through you…

“Did you hear about what happened to the sister?” Stiles can hear Scott saying, “Cora.” He adds, her name sounding alien on his tongue. Stiles searches his mind, flipping through all the tidbits their small town’s prolific rumor mill has produced over the years… Yeah, he can remember.

“…Fuckin’ tragedy, man.” He replies, but he doesn’t quite know what those words mean to him. Yes, it was sad for the whole community, but he finds himself thinking it must have been more of a tragedy for the young man left in the wake of his sister’s untimely death than anything else.

"I gotta get home, Stiles," Scott interrupts his thoughts, and Stiles turns away from the Hale house, his eyes skittering back towards his best friend,

"Yeah? Already?" He breathes, suddenly aware that it's getting late. They head back up the steps, Stiles letting Scott go first,

"Yeah, man, gotta do stuff tomorrow..." Stiles groans for him, but the two beam at each other, "Allison wants to meet with this wedding planner tomorrow to get a few kinks smoothed out." And Stiles claps him on the shoulder, taking his empty beer,

"Good luck with that, buddy. I don't know anything about planning weddings, or weddings in general, but you're probably gonna need it." He chuckles and Scott gives him a desperate look,

"Probably." He agrees as he pulls his keys out of his back pocket and heads for the Honda Pilot,

"Just agree with everything Allison says." Stiles advises and Scott laughs, "Although, I think she has you well trained by now. So you should be fine." He adds and winks, mouthing _pussy whipped_.

Scott has his window rolled down and he leans out to punch Stiles hard in the gut,

"Just, whatever you guys do, don't get the super cliche white cake. That shit's boring." Stiles begs, and Scott starts the engine, "Make it chocolate...or red velvet, or something!" Stiles continues as Scott laughs and starts to pull out of the driveway,

"Take your own advice and run it by Allison. I'm staying out of it!" Scott replies and Stiles gives him a thumbs up,

"Ok, will do!" He yells after Scott, "But you better watch out! I'm gonna make sure your wedding cake is fuckin' _Funfetti!_ "

He hears Scott's bark of laughter and watches him wave as he backs out onto the road. As he drives off, Stiles turns back around and takes in the view, his hands on his hips. The cabin is peaceful and quiet in the dark, the lights shining through the windows low and welcoming; he's intensely grateful that Scott's parents will let him stay here for the month or so that it'll take for the wedding to finish coming together. He remembers a few summers in his childhood spent out here on the lake, although he must've been just young enough that he doesn't remember more than the feel of the sun on his skin and the water closing over his head as he and Scott took turns dive-bombing off the dock.

He makes his way to the cabin to turn in for the night, but not before glancing over to the Hale house where the action is slowly starting to dwindle. He wonders briefly if Derek Hale is there...


	5. Chapter 5

Derek wakes up late the morning after the party. He had been so exhausted after the long night’s events that he had fallen asleep almost immediately after hitting the pillow. There had been flashes of the nightmares he was so used to, snippets of the blood and gore he’d experienced in battle, but thankfully Cora hadn’t made a guest appearance in any of it. He was even more grateful when, in the very early hours of the morning, he had been able to drift into a completely dreamless sleep, where he remained until close to ten.

As he swings his legs off the couch and brings himself into an upright position, he’s not surprised that he doesn’t feel particularly well rested, even with the added hours of sleep and respite from the unyielding nightmares. He gets himself up and rubs his hands over his face, runs them through his messy hair. The studio apartment is quiet, and through the open doorway, Derek can see the bedroom is empty; Sarah must be up at the house already. He feels a tinge of reluctance at the thought of having to endure another day around his family, especially now that everyone is accounted for with Laura being back, but he figures since he survived yesterday, he should be able to survive this at the very least.

In the bathroom, Derek peels off his clothes and shivers as he stands on the cool tiles, waiting for the water to heat up in the shower. When he finally steps into the hot spray, he takes a deep, long breath that eases his mind and soothes the perpetual tension in his muscles; he relishes the way the scorching water seems to be the only thing these days that really makes him loosen up. Derek has discovered that showers are sacred: it’s the only time he feels truly and acceptably alone, and focusing on the pitter-patter of the water helps him blank out his mind, helps him successfully push away the troubling thoughts that haunt him.

Unless he inadvertently seeks to thwart what little good fortune he has, that is: Derek is lathering body wash over his skin, his hand dipping down mechanically to clean himself when suddenly he slows down his actions, consciously feels his fingers against his flaccid dick. A niggling thought enters his mind: he wonders if he is still able to masturbate. He doesn’t particularly feel the desire to jack off; it’s more of a strange objective curiosity than anything else, just to see if he can still get it up.

As he fists his dick in his hand, he feels a promising tingle low in his belly and in his balls. He wants to get his hopes up, but chooses to keep it in check, no point in setting himself up for disappointment. He bites his bottom lip, watching his hand move; he touches himself in all the ways he knows he likes, executes techniques he’s been perfecting over the decades since the moment he learned to jack off for the very first time as a teenager. He runs his other hand down his solid chest, fingers hesitating momentarily to brush a nipple, before they descend to fondle his balls. There’s a little bit of something, his dick filling slightly, but still no dice.

Derek lets out a slightly frustrated breath as he scrambles to bring something to mind that will help him: he thinks of Sarah naked, of her soft breasts and smooth thighs; he thinks of the last time he was inside her, although he can hardly remember, it was so long ago; he tries to recall the sounds she makes when she’s close to orgasm, brings to mind the night he brought her off with his fingers alone. His dick gives a slight jerk, as if acknowledging his valiant efforts to make it work.

Derek’s head falls back into the spray of the water, his hand speeding up. He lets his mind wander to other things… He thinks of other women he’s seen naked, previous lovers of many years past. He embellishes what little he remembers with his own made-up details, scenarios he thinks will turn him on: a tight mouth on his dick, the feel of breasts pressed against his skin, the nipples hard, and the look of a smooth, round ass. Before he knows it though, some of the images have gone blurry, turning androgynous first and then decidedly more…masculine.

Derek isn’t exactly floored by the idea of finding men sexually attractive, but it’s in a way that’s born more out of necessity and convenience than anything else. Sure, he’s messed around with some of his army buddies while overseas; he even remembers a couple gropes in the locker room as a high schooler…

At the recollection of high school, a certain memory suddenly comes back to Derek as he stands in the shower; it worms its way into his brain unexpected and startling, hitting him like a brick wall:

_After baseball practice one late afternoon his senior year, Derek jogs back to the empty locker rooms by himself to retrieve his gym bag, all the while muttering about how he’s going to kill Luke for being such an ass. Luke and David had thought it would be really funny to hide Derek’s bag by stuffing it up in a dusty corner between an AC unit and the metal lockers right before practice. It was only after some aggressive persuasion that Derek had finally gotten an admission out of Luke, who he promised would yet live to further regret his prank._

_When he gets to the locker rooms, there is only one overhead light on, near the door, and the rest is cast in quickly fading light from the frosted windows. He curses to himself and makes his way down the first row of lockers. As he comes close to the end, he stops: there are sounds coming from around the corner, the rustle of clothes and soft voices. He isn’t particularly surprised, really, it is a locker room after all, and it’s rare for it to ever be completely empty. But there’s something furtive about the way the whispers are low, and the prolonged silences in between make Derek’s skin feel hot._

_He takes a steadying breath and peers around the corner until he can see two people, one crouched in front of the other. They would normally be hidden from anyone coming directly into the locker room by the long tiled wall of the showers, but from Derek’s angle, he has a full view of the boy kneeling on the cold hard ground._

_Even in the low lighting, Derek can see almost every detail: the boy’s closed eyes, long lashes grazing the top of fair cheeks that are lightly freckled; he can see the graceful neck and the short dark hair that has someone’s hands in it; he can see slick lips stretched wide, cheeks hollowed. Derek can’t tear his eyes off those lips, or the fiery glint in those warm brown eyes as they open to glance up, confident and sure._

_Derek can’t even be bothered to try to identify the standing boy whose profile is all he can see. Derek just wants to know who the other one is; his mind races for a name…any name. Suddenly he connects the dots—Stilinski! Nick Stilinski is in the same grade as Derek, so this must be…_

_Stiles._

_Nick Stilinski’s younger brother. Derek sucks in a sharp silent breath, feeling his cheeks heat up as the familiar rush of arousal washes over him, making his skin sensitive, flushed._

_Stiles’ lips mesmerize Derek as the boy pushes forward, stretching wider, and his eyes flutter shut once again; the other boy moans, his fingers tightening around the back of Stiles’ head. Derek suddenly feels a twist of guilt rise up past the desire fogging his brain. Of all the things Derek wants to be, a pervert voyeur is not one of them; he feels bad for watching people who are obviously too busy to realize he’s right around the corner._

_He makes his way back to the locker room doors as quietly as possible and escapes into the hall, where he stands stock still for a long moment._ Did I really just see that…? _He thinks over and over to himself._

_The better question that soon comes to his mind is,_ Did I really just _enjoy_ that…? _He has to take a shuddering breath, and he hopes no one will happen to come by as he’s walking down the hall, desperately willing his hard-on to go away._

_Needless to say, Derek had forgotten all about his gym bag, but for the next couple of months, he had in no way forgotten about Stiles Stilinski. As he lay in bed some nights, jacking off, he’d sometimes let his mind wander back to the strangely thrilling image of the younger boy on his knees, and he imagined it was his own cock between those tight lips instead…_

Derek hadn’t recalled that experience in years, but as he stands in the shower, water dripping from his hair into his eyes, he sees it as if it happened yesterday. There’s still something about the Stilinski boy that captivates Derek, sending an electric thrill right down his spine; he doesn’t know exactly what it is that allures him, and he certainly doesn’t know _why_. He hadn’t ever really known Stiles and had only ever been acquaintances with his older brother, Nick. 

Derek doesn’t believe in love at first sight or any other kind of bullshit like that, but he guesses it’s possible for some more primal and inexplicable attraction to occur between two people. He’d felt just about the same way for Sarah when they’d first gotten together, and he knows for sure he’s had previous lovers and one-night stands he’s been more partial to than others because of some innate compulsion he can’t quite explain.

He doesn’t over analyze the thing he has for a guy who’s pretty much a complete stranger; he settles on taking it at face value, like he had when he’d been eighteen in that dark locker room and springing a hard-on because of some dude’s _lips_. After all, guys get erections while thinking about nothing, for fuck’s sake.

Derek tears his thoughts away from the mysterious Stiles and finds that his dick is still mostly soft. He drops his hand and sighs heavily. There is small consolation in making the bit of progress that he has, but the fact that he doesn’t even feel the need to be sexually active is much more alarming than the fact that he can’t even get fully hard using his own hand.

After he’s dressed and ready, Derek makes his way up to the house. The sun is slanting down on him, already high in the sky; he squints out over the lake for a quick moment, collecting his wits about him and watching some ducks paddle through the reeds.

When he steps through the backdoor, he immediately spots his father in his armchair by the bay window, his reading glasses perched low on his nose and the morning paper held nearly at arms’ length. John gives his son a wide smile,

“Decided to join the living after all?” John laughs, and Derek thinks, _You have no idea…_ But he hardly has it in him to dwell on the morose implications of his father’s greeting and returns John’s smile with a genuine grin of his own,

“The party wore me out,” He chuckles, and his father nods emphatically, as if to say _Me too, son, me too._ Derek always knew he was more like his father than his mother, but he realizes now how like two peas in a pod they truly are.

Derek wanders into the kitchen where he’s assaulted with four pairs of eyes. His mother, sister, Sarah, and Haley are seated at the kitchen table, with Laura perched on the arm of her chair in the same way Derek remembers her doing as a child; some things never change, and it makes him grin.

“Well, someone sure did sleep in.” His mother says pleasantly enough, as Derek makes his way over to the empty coffee maker.

“I did.” Derek smiles, still watching them watch him, “I got some good sleep.” He adds and he sees his mother’s expression shift slightly, turning sympathetic. Derek swallows nervously without thinking; Sarah must have told her about his night terrors. It’s not surprising, but Derek certainly would’ve rather the revelation never happened at all. Derek moves to the sink to rinse out the carafe and fill it with water; all the while, he can see his mother hover excitedly by his side, her eyes still on him. As he’s pouring the water into the coffee maker, his mother claps her hands together once and exchanges an energized glance with Sarah and Haley,

“Well!” She exclaims, “We were just talking about some exciting stuff, Derek. And we want to know what you think!” Derek immediately feels his stomach drop, but he turns around calmly and smiles over at Sarah, his look slightly quizzical; he can feel Laura’s eyes boring into his head,

“Mom.” Laura cuts in, and her tone is light, except Derek can detect a slight note of accusation in it, “He just got up. Let the poor guy at least eat breakfast first or something…” She says, and Derek realizes she’s trying to buffer the conversation Liz seems set on starting. Even though his hopes sink further, he shoots Laura a grateful look for trying to assuage the situation, whatever it may be.

“But this is perfect, Laura.” His mom reasons, looking innocently flabbergasted, “The sooner we all talk about it, the sooner we can get the plans underway!” She looks immensely pleased with whatever these plans are and doubly eager to share them with Derek, who she turns to expectantly.

“What is it?” He asks and just wants to get it over with at this point. Liz glances back over to Sarah once more, who is blushing, her smile trained on Derek eagerly.

“Well, you remember Haley’s idea from last night…?” Sarah starts hesitantly, and Derek knows within the span of breath what this whole thing is about. He desperately tries to keep the pleasant mask on his face from slipping.

Haley grins at him and nudges a bridal catalog that’s lying open on the table; she arches an eyebrow at him, her grin widening,

“It’s wedding season!” She sing-songs, as if that’s enough explanation in and of itself. His mother comes around and clasps him on the arm,

“It’d be so wonderful, Derek, just think about it.” She sweeps her arm out to indicate the backyard and the lake beyond the wide kitchen windows, “We have more than enough space in the yard and if we hurry to get everything planned and booked we could have the wedding by the beginning of August!” _That’s barely two months away!_ The smile Derek pushes onto his face is more of a strained twitch. His mother continues,

“It wouldn’t have to be anything really big or excessively fancy, dear. Just a nice, quiet wedding with our closest family and friends.” She gushes. Sarah’s eyes are nearly sparkling with the thought of it,

“What better place to have a wedding, baby?” She beams, “Derek, what do you think?” The four women fall quiet and look at him anxiously, eager for an answer. Derek’s mouth falls open, and he blanks. _Holy shit, what do I say…?_

“I say, let’s do it.” The words come tumbling out of his mouth before he knows what he’s doing, and the convincing sincerity in his tone shocks him even more. In truth, he wants so desperately to want this for his future, he really does… A wife, and 2.5 kids, with a dog, and a white picket fence. But he can’t deny the ruse behind that manufactured desire: he wants it because he knows it’s what’s expected of him, it’s what his family wants for him, his mother most of all, and he wants nothing more than to please her, to never disappoint her again…

“Really?” Sarah gasps, and there’s a light in her eyes that’s been reignited by the surprising surety in his voice, “ _Really?”_ She repeats, her eyes tearing up slightly as she lifts her hands to cover her trembling lips. She looks so elated by the idea, Derek doesn’t trust himself to speak, can’t think of anything to say, or anything that he _wants_ to say; instead of trying to scramble to find words he knows will fall far short, Derek just nods and plasters a stupid grin on his face as he walks around to the kitchen table and pulls Sarah into his arms.

He doesn’t know how to label the emotions he’s experiencing in that moment. It’s all jumbled up and constantly changing, like trying to grasp at smoke, always elusive. He can’t decide if he wants to feel hopeful or completely dismal; there’s the lingering idea that maybe things will be okay between them, that maybe all the years they’ve spent together and all the ups and downs they’ve weathered will make their marriage solid, foolproof. It’s the irrational part of Derek that thinks maybe holy matrimony will be just the thing to smooth everything out and ensure the perfect happy ending they both want so badly, and it’s the irrational part of Derek that’s starting to win out.

Derek raises his head slightly, his chin resting in Sarah’s soft hair; when he looks up, his eyes meet his sister’s as she stares at him from the other side of the kitchen table. She doesn’t look happy, and she doesn’t even try to hide it from him. He tears his eyes away, a pang of self-reproach rearing its ugly head; he knows whatever she may be thinking about this arrangement, she’s right.

“Besides!” Liz’s voice interrupts Derek’s thoughts, and he pulls away from the hug slightly, startled by his mother’s exclamation. The blatantly excited look on her face sends another dreadful premonition skittering around Derek’s brain. Liz reaches out for Laura, and clasps the both of them around their arms, the determination in her eyes looking like it’s set in stone,

“It’s about time at least one of you started giving me grandchildren!” Derek didn’t think it would be possible for his mother’s level of enthusiasm to get any higher after the wedding scheme, but at the idea of grandchildren, Liz becomes ecstatic.

_Oh fuck. Kids?_ Derek hasn’t ever thought about becoming a father, and he doesn’t seem all that keen to start thinking about it now. And until his dick gets back on board with sex, there’s no chance babies are gonna happen anyway. Now seems to be the only time his impotence is any kind of comfort whatsoever. 

Haley laughs and claps her hands, saying something about finally becoming an “auntie”, and Sarah giggles, her face turning a bright shade of red. Derek looks to Laura, his mouth parched and his mind horrifically vacant, but Laura isn’t looking at him. She’s scowling out the window instead, hardly bothering to mask the irritation on her face even for the benefit of the others. If their mother catches any of the unease suddenly crackling in the air, she thoroughly ignores it.

“…There’s so much to think about and plan, especially with a wedding so soon…” Derek is catching snippets of the enthused conversation still going on between his mother, Sarah, and Haley; Laura had excused herself to take care of some vague work-related business, which Derek bitterly thinks is a bit too convenient.

“Oh, it’ll be easy to pull everything together,” His mom waves it off, “I’ve got a few contacts…And you know Deidre, who lives in town, right? Well, she does some incredible catering, and I’m sure she’d be willing to do it on short notice…” The ease with which his mother seems to strong-arm everything astounds Derek to no end, and he realizes he has to get out of the kitchen and away from all this talk before he fucking explodes with anger.

He grabs his coffee, now practically cold, and slides out the back door again, unseen. He’s gritting his teeth, and he’s so furious he feels the beat of his heart thumping in the back of his skull. He’s angry with his mother, he’s angry with Sarah, he’s angry with Laura, but most of all, he’s angry with himself. Why couldn’t he just say no? Why does he even remotely think getting married and having babies is a good idea? The severity of the situation suddenly comes crashing down on him, and Derek has to set his cup on a table before he lets it shatter on the deck. He braces himself on the railing and tries not to hyperventilate because he is one second away from having a fucking meltdown.

“What are you _thinking_ , Derek?” He suddenly hears Laura hiss by his side, and he nearly jumps; he hadn’t been aware she’d come out after him. He whirls on her and glares violently,

“Don’t say a _fucking_ word, Laura.” He seethes, “I can’t do this with you right now.” And he shoots a glance into the kitchen windows; it must look at least a tiny bit suspicious that they’re out here like this. Derek knows Laura is stubborn, and by the look in her eyes, he immediately knows she isn’t going to give this up,

“Well you’re running out of time to do anything, little brother, because in _two_ damn _months_ you’re going to be hitched.” She whispers harshly, and Derek grabs her elbow, maneuvers her off the deck and into the lawn so there’s no chance they’ll be overheard. She follows him willingly, but when they’ve nearly reached the swaying branches of the willow tree down by the lake, she wrenches her arm free.

“You don’t want to get married, Derek.” She accuses him, throws it in his face, “I can tell!” And Derek runs both of his shaky hands through his hair, leaves them clasped at the back of his neck; he’s seeing dark spots bloom across his vision and his chest hurts like a motherfucker.

“It’s that transparent?” He rasps, his voice bitter and hard; a small shock of fear zips up his spine at the thought of Sarah being able to see right through him; if she can’t already.

“To me it is.” Laura replies, and her voice is a bit softer, “You could never fool me…Not when we were kids, and definitely not now.” She adds and her small, wistful laugh makes Derek’s throat constrict,

“I just…” Derek swallows thickly, can’t meet Laura’s forceful stare, “Things are easier this way…” He can’t believe he’s saying these words out loud, but it’s true. The only reason why any of this has gone on for so long—his relationship with Sarah, his career in the Army—is because it’s easy, it’s easier than saying no, easier than breaking things off. Laura makes a frustrated sound in the back of her throat and shakes her head,

“That’s a bullshit explanation, Derek.” She snaps, and he turns on her again, his expression irate. Laura has her hands on her hips as she steps into Derek’s space,

“Don’t throw your life away on something that you don’t really want!” She goes on, “You _never, ever_ half-assed _anything_ in your entire life until now, Derek! Don’t make such a huge mistake and waste away your years with someone you don’t actually love because it’s fucking _easy_ —”

“You don’t know a damn thing about me anymore, Laura!” He nearly roars, “Who the fuck are you to tell me what to do, huh? Why are you giving a shit about what I do with my life now? After _ten_ fucking years of hearing nothing from you!” His fists are clenched by his sides so tight, he’s sure there will be a bruise or two on his palms before the day is over,

 _“Nothing?”_ Laura exclaims, incredulous, “You’re the one who refused to take my calls and avoided my offers to come out and visit, you _moron!_ ”

“As if I couldn’t tell how badly you didn’t want to give a fuck.” Derek growls, “You’re not the only shitty liar in this family, Laura.” And she looks momentarily shamed at this, her eyes slipping away from Derek’s for just a moment. It’s true, those times she’d called had been more out of a nagging sense of obligation than anything else. She takes a deep breath and looks up at him again, some new realization glinting in her eyes,

“…If all of this is just because of what happened with Cora—” She starts, and Derek snaps, his figure coming forward to loom dangerously over his sister,

“ _Don’t!_ ” He snarls, and her eyes are wide as she stares at him. Derek’s shoulders are trembling, but he doesn’t know if it’s with rage or regret. 

“Do _not_ bring her into this.” He utters, his voice wavering, half plea, half demand. Laura’s look of surprise hardens somewhat as she watches him, challenging him,

“…You have to let go of what happened, Derek.” She whispers, and her voice cracks, “You _have_ to, or it’s going to kill you.” Derek bares his teeth in a dark scowl, and he tastes blood on his tongue from where he’s biting down too hard on it. _I wish it would…_

After a tense moment, Laura realizes Derek isn’t going to reply to her. He’s clamming up, and it makes the same anger she felt at the party the other night rise again, makes her shake with irritation,

“God _dammit_ , Derek!” She exclaims through gritted teeth, her voice high and reedy, as if she’s fighting back tears. Derek gives her a warning look and turns away to begin walking in the opposite direction. He’s had enough.

“Do you think _she_ would want you to live the rest of your life this way, miserable and afraid?” She calls after him, and Derek feels the words as if they were slicing through his skin, “Do you really think she would want you to go through with this loveless marriage, Derek?” He turns on his heels and glowers at her,

“We’ll never know what she wants, Laura. She’s dead.” He says, his words haunted and low, and it’s so resentful and completely heartbroken it floors Laura, sending a chill stabbing through her heart. Derek turns his back to her once more and stalks away, leaving her standing under the willow tree despondent and speechless.

That night the dinner table is unnaturally quiet, and the tension hanging in the air between Derek and Laura is almost as palpable as the steaks on their plates. Sarah doesn’t seem fazed much, which Derek feels a bizarre sense of relief over; then again, Sarah probably doesn’t think much of it because she’s so used to Derek pissing people off and being pissed off himself. The irony is not lost on him, and it once again brings into the spotlight the maddening fact that he’s making the wrong decision by going through with the marriage.

His parents glance between him and his sister every so often, but nothing more than a few discerning stares ever come of it. His mother is looking particularly satisfied with the day’s events, and she seems to be set on refusing to let anything ruin it for her. He shares a couple glances with his father, and the expression on John’s face is something between sympathy and irritation; it makes Derek feel dirty, as if he’d just gotten done dragging Laura through the dirt. Which he had, he supposes. But he isn’t about to admit that he is the one in the wrong; Laura shouldn’t have brought Cora into this.

“So, uh…” Derek tries to be nonchalant as he digs around for something to say, something to scatter the oppressive silence, “I noticed somebody’s living in that house across the lake…” He looks between his mom and dad and takes another bite of steak so he has something mechanical and safe to do, “I remember it was always empty for years though…” He adds, and John gets a pensive look on his face, his eyebrows knitting together,

“Huh, well, the place belongs to the McCalls, I know that much for sure…” He finally says, “Maybe they sold it or something?” Liz shakes her head as she forks at her salad,

“They didn’t sell it,” She corrects, “I ran into Cindy a couple days ago, and she told me all about how her son Scott is back with his fiancée. They’re getting married next month— _See!_ ” She beams at both Derek and Sarah, brandishing her fork, “ _Everyone’s_ getting married! It’s a good time for weddings!” Out of the corner of his eye, Derek doesn’t miss the way Laura sort of cringes, her gaze leveled stubbornly on her food.

“It’s just a shame they went about it all the wrong way,” Liz adds, and Derek looks at her quizzically,

“How so?” Sarah asks conversationally after taking a sip of her water. Liz has this look on her face and Derek hates it; her lips are pursed as she says primly,

“Well, his fiancée is already pregnant,” Her nose is slightly scrunched up now too, “ _Six_ months pregnant, at that.” And Derek hears Laura groan,

“Mom, it’s not 1955.” She gripes, “So what if she’s pregnant first?” Liz gives her daughter a critical look,

“I’m just _saying_ …” she gives a little shrug, still sticking to her guns, “there’s a _right_ way, and there’s a _wrong_ way.”

“You mean, there’s _your_ way, and there’s a wrong way.” Laura huffs, almost under her breath. Derek has to hide a smirk behind his bread roll, but he thinks Laura glances up soon enough to spot it first. Liz looks only marginally offended as she sips her wine.

“So…Scott and his fiancée—What’s her name?” Derek interjects himself. The whole table seems to be searching their memories for a name,

“Allison Argent. They were high school sweethearts.” His mother finally provides, and Derek nods slowly,

“So, Scott and Allison are staying over there then.” He tilts his chin towards the dark window, in the direction of the cabin.

“No…” Liz looks like she’s trying to remember a different piece of the conversation she had with Mrs. McCall, “Cindy mentioned she was getting the guest bedroom in their house ready for them—She absolutely couldn’t wait to have them back home, didn’t want to let them out of her sight!” She’s smiling again, as if she can empathize as she looks between her own son and daughter; Derek and Laura aren’t sure they feel the same.

“She mentioned something about a friend coming along with them…” Liz is massaging her temple, looking frustrated, “Gosh, what’s that boy’s name…? He and Scott were always attached at the hip in high school…” Sarah suddenly lets out a burst of laughter,

“Oh, that’s easy then.” She offers, “That would be Stiles Stilinski.”

Derek feels a slight flush climb up his neck and settle on his cheeks as he methodically cuts another strip of steak, then cuts it again. The fact that he had been in the shower that very morning picturing the guy give a stellar blowjob makes Derek a little uneasy, a little embarrassed, especially because it’s one of the only memories he has of the youngest Stilinski.

“Right, right, Stiles!” His mother looks relieved, “They let Stiles use the cabin, as far as I know.” She adds and tears a part of her bread roll into a bite-sized piece.

_Damn, he’s been right across the lake this whole time…_ Derek fumbles with his napkin.

“Did you hear about what happened to him,” Liz asks casually, “before he left town?” Derek watches as John shakes his head slowly, a sad look creeping across his face,

“Tragic.” John murmurs, “Those parents shouldn’t have been so hard on the boy…” Derek feels a fierce curiosity overcome him at this,

“What happened…?” He dares, and hopes to God his mother isn’t going to open her mouth to speak; he’s heard enough of her condemnatory narration.

“You didn’t hear about that?” Sarah demands, looking surprised, “It happened right before we moved.” She prompts and Derek shakes his head. It would make sense that he had been too self-absorbed with his own demons at the time to be aware of much else going on in the community.

“His parents found out he was gay and kicked him out of the house right on the spot! Practically _disowned_ him right on the front lawn.” Sarah says, “Can you believe that?”

“They made a huge scene, apparently,” His mother adds, her tone surprisingly subdued, “Mrs. Landers says she and half the neighborhood saw the whole thing…”

“God, how _humiliating_ …” Laura puts in, sounding horrified, “How could they do such a thing? He’s their _kid_ , for God’s sake!” Liz gives a long sigh as she stares hard at the center of the table,

“It’s a shame Hank passed away not that long ago…” John adds, “That family certainly has had their fair share of hardships,” and Derek rotates around in his seat to stare at his father, but says nothing.

“Wow. That’s terrible. I always thought Mr. Stilinski was nice...” Sarah sighs heavily, “I hope they had a chance to work things out…” Laura is moving her mashed potatoes around aimlessly, a slight frown on her lips,

“How could they turn away their own flesh and blood like that?” She muses, an angry tinge at the corner of her lips.

“Who knows, honey…” Liz doesn’t even bat an eyelash as she adds, “I wouldn’t be able to do such a thing to my own child…”

It takes all of Derek’s willpower not to explode into a rage once this remark registers in his brain. _What you did to me all those years ago wasn’t much different, you hypocritical bitch!_ He has to train his eyes on anything other than his mother in order to keep them from blurring red with anger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so I know these chapters have been pretty Derek-centric, but Stiles' world will be quickly colliding with Derek's in the very near future.
> 
> Thanks for all the support!
> 
> Also, I've never had a beta (and I'm not sure how the logistics work exactly), but I'm thinking this could benefit from one, especially in the upcoming chapters. Please let me know how I can go about acquiring one, or if anyone's interested... :) Just let me know.
> 
> Thanks again!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Stiles finds that trying to forget the past is harder to do than he thought, and for the first time in a very long time, he allows himself to remember the one memory that kept him away from Beacon Hills for nearly a decade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!
> 
> Big chapter here! Just a heads up, it will contain lots of family-driven angst, violence, homophobic language, and an awkward first-time sex scene.
> 
> Hang in there for big things to come in the next few chapters! I promise Derek and Stiles will be meeting soon.... :)
> 
> Last but certainly not least, a huge shout out goes to my awesome beta, Werhooligan, for her incredible help and support! Thank you! ;)

Stiles is lounging in a well-worn armchair, a dusty _TIME_ magazine flipped open over his leg. The other night, it had taken him nearly an hour to wrestle the heavy monstrosity with ugly 80s upholstery onto the back porch, but the struggle had been well worth it: he now sits outside in the shade, enjoying the view while a slight breeze alleviates the growing heat. He lets one leg swing down to the ground so he can rock himself back and forth, only slightly worried that the squeaks in the old floorboards may be a dangerous sign.

Stiles can’t really remember the last time he felt so relaxed. Sure, he had been perfectly happy with Scott and Allison back in Chicago. Scott and Allison had been his anchors; they had kept him sane, never left him alone quite long enough for the depression to start creeping back in on him. Stiles had hated being alone. It gave him too much time to think, to dwell on the past and linger over futile ‘what-ifs’.

But this here—sitting in a ridiculous armchair, reading outdated magazines, sipping a cold beer, and alone except for the fish in the lake and the birds in the sky—feels right to Stiles. 

The fact that he’s in the same town as his family still leaves him restless and slightly paranoid, but he’s surprised to find that these sensations are manageable, predictable. With a generous dose of self-prescribed sarcasm and a fridge full of PBR, he’s sure he’ll be able to weather the intermittent gloom and apprehension just fine.

Stiles is nodding off in his armchair when he hears a voice call to him from inside the cabin; he jolts upright, his sunglasses sliding down his nose, and leans over the side of the chair to peer through the screen door. A wide smile graces his lips when he spots Isaac making his way to the back porch,

“Hey! What’s up, stranger?” He says, a pleased grin spreading across his face. Isaac pushes the screen door open and steps outside,

“Look at you, Stilinski.” Isaac drawls and motions towards the way Stiles is sprawled out in his chair, a damp can of beer in one hand and the magazine forgotten by his side, “Practicing for retirement?” Isaac jabs and arches his eyebrow. Stiles nods with a smirk,

“You bet. I’ll be a pro by the time I’m 65.” Stiles gets up from his armchair and drags over a folding chair, “And for being a smartass…” He sets it next to his own, “…you get the shitty chair.” Stiles pats the seat encouragingly and Isaac smacks him over the shoulder with a clipboard he has in his hand; Stiles laughs even as he rubs the sore spot, looking affronted,

“And you’re a shitty host, Stiles.” Isaac points out matter-of-factly, and he sits himself down in the armchair instead, all the while leveling Stiles with a smirk. Stiles brings his fists up and pretends to pop Isaac on the chin as he walks by, disappearing back into the house,

“I know. I’m the worst.” Stiles calls back, “I can hardly sleep at night.” He hears Isaac’s bark of laughter as he pulls open the fridge,

“Hey, want a beer?” Stiles yells.

“You know it’s only, like, eleven-thirty, right?” Isaac chuckles as he flips through a couple pages of _TIME_.

“Dude, I’m actually trying to be a good host, here. You’re killing me.” Stiles pulls out two fresh beers, the metal cans slick between his fingers, “Besides, it’s five o’clock somewhere.” He adds as he makes his way back outside. Isaac is holding his hand out for the beer when Stiles swings the screen door open,

“Hey, man, I’m not complaining.” Isaac grins, “Just making sure you haven’t lost touch with reality or something like that.” And Stiles bypasses Isaac’s outstretched hand and drops the cold beer directly into his lap; Isaac grunts and jerks forward, an annoyed smile still playing over his lips,

“You know what, maybe I’m a shitty host because I have shitty guests…” Stiles says ponderingly, his teeth glinting behind his smile. Isaac is holding his beer as far away from him as possible in case it fizzes over,

“I’m the best fucking guest ever, Stiles.” Isaac informs him as the top snaps open on his drink with minor incident. Stiles shakes his head,

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, man.” He chuckles, taking a long swallow of his own beer,

“So.” Stiles nods in the direction of Isaac’s clipboard, “What’s that for? You look like Radar from M*A*S*H, man.” Isaac grins for a moment and licks the beer off his lips,

“Dude, it’s the Clipboard of Authority.” He says gravely, “Makes me look like a badass.”

“Makes you look like a tool.” Stiles corrects, and Isaac snorts,

“It’s the guest list for Scott and Allison’s wedding.” Isaac finally concedes, and Stiles reaches over him to snatch up the clipboard, suddenly very interested.

“And _you_ get to make the guest list?” Stiles looks dubious, “Allison must not know you have this…” He murmurs, reading over the papers. Isaac grabs the clipboard back,

“Well, yeah, Allison doesn’t know, but Scott asked me to start it—”

“So you mean Scott pawned it off on you! That dog.” Stiles chuckles, “Already shirking on his responsibilities…” He’s shaking his head in mock disapproval, and Isaac smirks,

“He’s been in town for hours already getting measured for a suit, and then Allison mentioned something about spending the rest of the afternoon picking out shit for their wedding registry.” Isaac explains, and the looks they share are painfully sympathetic, “So I think a guest list is the least of his worries at the moment…”

“Damn.” One corner of Stiles’ lips turns up in a grimace, “Sucks. Who knew getting married would be so hard…” And the two snicker.

“Better him than me.” Isaac drones, stretching back in the chair,

“Same here.” Stiles agrees behind the lip of his beer can. They love Scott to death, but since the moment they set foot back in Beacon Hills, it’s been nothing but a non-stop flurry of preparation and pressure: venues, flowers, guests, catering, invitations, decorations, music, vows—there seems to be no end in sight, and even watching from the sidelines is exhausting.

Isaac taps the clipboard on the back of Stiles’ metal chair, “This is actually why I’m here.” He says, and holds up the front page for Stiles to see again, “Help me make the guest list?” Stiles takes it from Isaac and looks it over more closely,

“You mean you wouldn’t come visit me unless you had to put a fucking guest list together, Lahey? You’re an asshole…” Stiles complains, and Isaac rolls his eyes, 

“It’s true. I try to stay away from you as much as possible, but desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“Figures. Since you can’t even handle a damn guest list…” Stiles laughs and elbows Isaac in the ribs. Stiles is reading through the names on the list: he recognizes some as family—aunts, uncles, cousins—and some names he recognizes from town—neighbors, family-acquaintances—but he gets a goofy grin on his face when he sees their friends’ names,

“Lydia and Jackson, Erica and Boyd, Danny, Kira and Malia, Ethan and Aidan…” Stiles nods appreciatively, “Lookin’ good so far…”

“Yeah, Jackson and Lydia are coming back next week. Lydia has some class she has to finish up first…” Isaac runs his hand through his wavy hair and looks out over the lake, “Erica and Boyd are coming down from Seattle a couple days before the wedding—You know they have a kid now?”

“I did know that. Crazy, right?… It still feels like high school was just yesterday, man.”

“No, you know what’s crazy? Their kid is already _five_.” Isaac tells him and Stiles’ eyebrows shoot up,

“No fuckin’ way!” He shakes his head, “ _Five?_ As in _five_ years old?” Isaac gives him an exaggerated nod and grins,

“Yeah. I was up there about six months back, helping Boyd with some renovations to their house.” The smile he gets on his face is tender, “Julie’s such a cute kid, man. Wait 'til you see her.” Stiles leans back in his chair and eyes Isaac critically, a smirk broadening his features,

“Aww, look at that, Isaac Lahey’s heart isn’t made of stone after all…” He croons, and Isaac chuckles,

“Oh come on, I’ve never had anything against kids.”

“That’s probably your biological clock talking, man.” Stiles warns, “I don’t exactly remember you jumping at the chance to babysit in high school.”

“That’s because I was too busy babysitting you guys.” Isaac replies easily, “Someone had to keep your asses out of trouble.” Stiles wrinkles up his nose,

“Ok. Touché. I’ll give you that much. But you weren’t any good at it.” He chuckles.

Suddenly they hear the front door bang open and someone’s quick footsteps come across the floor; both Isaac and Stiles jump in their seats and lean around the door frame to see who it is.

“Guys, I’ve got like two minutes!” It’s Scott, and he sounds like he’s gone a little crazy, “Do you have any beer?” Scott yells again, still inside the house,

“Yeah! Grab one!” Stiles calls back, “Or ten.” He adds, and Isaac chuckles. Scott comes to the screen door, but doesn’t quite open it because he’s too busy opening his beer instead and drinking half of it in one go,

“Rough day?” Stiles asks, and Scott shudders,  


“Rough _morning_.” He corrects, “Now we’ve got to go hit up Macy’s and Kohl’s and probably a handful of other stores for the gift registry…” Isaac pulls in air through his teeth in a quiet hiss,

“No rest for the weary, man.” He says, and Scott gives him a pointed look,

“Not helpful.” He groans and shoves Isaac out of the armchair so he can sit in it; he lets out a long content sigh when he does, “I wish I could stay right here forever.” Stiles snorts,

“Then you’d be stuck with my sorry ass for the rest of eternity…” He warns,

“And you don’t want that.” Isaac provides as he leans back against the railing, his arms folded. Scott looks at the both of them and sighs,

“Fuck you guys.” He says with no heat, “…You’re always such buzzkills.” He grumbles and takes another sip of his cold beer. Stiles and Isaac exchange smiles,

“So, how’s the guest list coming along?” Scott leans over on his elbows, flailing slightly as the mammoth armchair tilts forward dangerously,

“I added maybe…ten names?” Isaac offers, looking a little sheepish.

“I’m on the list. So, don’t worry, he got everyone important.” Stiles says, and Scott snickers,

“That’s not as comforting as you think it is.” He murmurs, then rouses himself, stretching his arms up. He looks over at Isaac, “Hey, thanks for doing this, seriously. I think if I hand it over to my mom, she’ll be able to finish it up.”

“Yeah, you’ll have ten pages worth of guests to invite by the time she’s done…” Stiles laughs, and Isaac reaches over for the clipboard,

“I should be heading out, guys, but I can drop it off at your house on my way back.” He offers and Scott gives him a grateful look,

“That’d be great, Isaac. Thanks.” He says as Isaac gives a little mock salute and heads for the door,

“Good luck with the rest of today. Try to survive.” Isaac grins, “And thanks for the beer Stiles. See you soon, man.” Stiles give him a nod as Isaac opens the screen door. He’s about to step inside when he stops suddenly and turns back to Stiles; there’s a somewhat uncomfortable look on his face, and he swallows first before he speaks again,

“I, uh…” His eyes shift from Stiles’ gaze for a moment, before slowly coming back, “I saw Nick the other day. In Safeway.” Stiles feels his blood run cold, but he tries to keep a neutral expression on his face. Scott quickly turns to look at Stiles, but says nothing. Isaac looks a little fidgety as he adds, “We talked for a little while. Just the normal bullshit.” He gives Stiles a small smile, “I just wanted you to know I didn’t tell him anything. About you being in town, I mean.” Stiles feels a breath he didn’t know he was holding slip out, fast and shaky,

“Oh.” He says, and doesn’t really know what else to add, “Thanks, man. I appreciate that.” Isaac nods and opens the screen door again, but Stiles stops him,

“Hey.” He hesitates, “Uh…how was he?” He tries to sound disinterested and far less nervous than he actually is. The color drains from Isaac’s face a bit, and his eyes dart to Scott for a quick moment before looking back at Stiles,

“He’s…ok.” He finally says, his voice slightly off, “We really didn’t talk much, you know.” He adds quickly. Stiles doesn’t seem to find his behavior strange, as far as Isaac can tell, and he says his goodbyes again and slips into the house.

Scott and Stiles sit in silence for a while, just staring out over the lake. Finally Scott drains the last of his beer and gets up, puts his back to the railing so he’s facing Stiles,

“What are you thinking, man?” He says quietly, and Stiles glances at him for a moment before looking away again; his eyebrows are pulled together slightly, his lips set in a firm line, but Scott can’t decipher what kind of expression it is.

“I don’t really know.” Stiles finally replies, his voice low, “It just kind of feels...unreal.” He leans back in his seat and his hand comes out to pick at the slivers of wood on the railing by his side, 

“Feels too close to home.” He decides, and a strange smile dances fleetingly over his lips at the irony. Having Isaac run into his brother was too close to home in more than one sense of the phrase. _I’m too close to home, literally,_ Stiles thinks.

Scott nods slightly, his eyes squinting as he looks out into the sunlight, out towards the road and the trees,

“Yeah.” He hesitates a moment before finally asking the question they’ve both been wondering, “Have you thought about…going to see them?” Stiles’ head comes up so fast, Scott flinches. The expression on Stiles’ face is still closed off to him though, and he finds it unsettling.

“It’s been almost ten years, Stiles.” Scott says quietly, placating, “No matter what, they’re still your family—”

“No, they’re not.” Stiles suddenly snaps, “You guys are my family. Our friends are my family.” His voice wavers, “Family is always there for you. Family loves you _unconditionally_.” He swallows, his throat sticking, his eyes cast away, angry and dejected, “The people who are supposed to be my family have done none of those things.” He takes a deep breath, “So, no, I haven’t thought about going to see them. And that's not going to change.” He finishes, the tone in his voice resolute. Scott knows it means the conversation is over.

Scott takes a couple steps forward and places his hand on Stiles’ shoulder, his fingers squeezing comfortingly,

“Ok.” He whispers, “…Whatever you decide to do, Stiles, we’ll all be right behind you one-hundred percent.” Stiles brings his hand up for a moment to grip Scott’s wrist before letting it fall back into his lap; the only thank you he’s able to give is a slow nod because he doesn’t trust himself with words. Suddenly the pain is all too real, too oppressive and unexpected.

“I have to start heading back.” Scott tells him, “You gonna be ok?” Stiles nods, “If you want to come with…”

“I’m fine, Scott.” Stiles’ voice is rough when he speaks, and he clears his throat before adding, “Really. Thanks though.” And he musters up an encouraging smile. Scott watches him carefully for a long second before patting Stiles’ shoulder and stepping away towards the door,

“Ok. Call if you need anything.” Scott says, and Stiles nods,

“Alright. Have fun picking out towels and cookware, buddy.” Stiles calls after him, his usual sarcasm sliding back into place, and Scott laughs, even though he knows Stiles is using it as a defense mechanism. It’s a double-edged blade Stiles is playing with, and Scott knows it’s only a matter of time before he cuts himself with it. 

They’ve had a million different variations of the same conversation before: Scott is always telling Stiles not to bottle up his feelings, not to swallow them down and hope they just go away; he begs Stiles not to hide behind his jokes and smother the hurt he’s feeling with layers of deflective sarcasm and ambiguous one-liners. But it’s all Stiles has, and he doesn’t want to let it go, even if it does more damage than good in the long run. All Scott is left with is to hope for the best, and there’s very little comfort in that.

For the rest of the afternoon, Stiles is restless. He paces back and forth on the back porch for a while, hangs out on the dock for an hour, catching some sun, but eventually he goes back inside and watches movies on his laptop. He finishes one and a half before he slams his computer shut and starts pacing all over again. He’s not only bored out of his mind, he’s _distracted_. His thoughts keep going back to the conversation he had with Scott, back to the distressing thought that his family is wandering around maybe only a couple miles away, completely oblivious as they do their own thing, go about their own lives, just barely out of reach. He feels their presence like a burning itch in his muscles, way too deep under his skin, and he wants to scream and yell and kick at something. _Fuck you guys! Fuck you!_

But it’s the creeping sadness under all of the anger and irritation that gets to him, drags him down, consumes him alive. Stiles takes the whole six-pack of beer with him when he finally settles himself back down on the porch outside, irate and desperate for a buzz, for anything that will help dampen his powerless frustration.

After half of the beers are gone, the empty plastic rings looking like little twisted nooses, Stiles scoots himself down to the edge of the porch; he lets his legs swing over the side, so the bare soles of his feet are only just grazing the blades of grass below; he ignores how it tickles. He leans his head heavily against one of the posts, the wood hot from baking in the sun; sweat prickles Stiles’ forehead and neck, but he pays no attention, wallows in the burn against his skin.

A strange tranquility comes over him, but it’s like the calm before a storm. He can still feel the red-hot bitter anger roiling below the surface, pushing precariously at a thin barrier, a barrier that has become as thin and fragile as the flimsy membrane inside an eggshell. It’s only a matter of time before it tears and the eggshell shatters, leaving nothing but broken pieces that can’t be put back together again. It’s only a matter of time before Stiles shatters into a million razor sharp pieces.

Stiles doesn’t exactly want to recall his last memories in Beacon Hills, but they come to him unbidden nonetheless. He’s not sure if he doesn’t fight it because he doesn’t have the will to do so or because he actually wants to sadistically relive the moment his world crumbled into dust…  
Whatever the reason may be, he sees and feels the entirety of the memory as if it were happening at that very moment, vivid and alive in all its miniscule detail…

_Stiles doesn’t know what he and Jake are. They haven’t bothered to pin it down, haven’t taken the time to slap a label on it. But he does know he wouldn’t just call it a fling. They’d been messing around for almost a year now, and, besides Scott, Jake had become one of his closest friends. Stiles figures that could very well be just a byproduct of exchanging hand jobs and sucking each other off, but they also share dreams and ambitions, things Stiles wouldn’t divulge with just anyone. They’ve even talked about going off to CSU in Long Beach together, becoming roommates, dominating parties at beer pong and going to every 49ers football game…_

_Stiles wouldn’t in any way call Jake his boyfriend, but he can’t deny the fact that having his dick in Jake’s mouth definitely doesn’t qualify as being just friends. As far as he’s concerned, though, they’re just two guys, two regular old friends, with the added exception of sex. No big deal._

_But today is different. Today makes Stiles jittery in a weird way, and he feels the nervous energy spike low in his belly when he sees Jake ride up into the driveway on his bike. Jake hops off, abandons his bike in the yard, and jogs for the house. As he opens the front door, Stiles swallows down his anticipation and hopes his cheeks don’t look as hot and as red as they feel._

_“Hey.” Jake says as he steps inside, his look knowing and his tentative smile private. He seems as edgy as Stiles, and it makes Stiles feel better, more grounded._

_“Hey.” He replies, and his voice is quieter than he anticipated as he leads Jake into the living room. “Did you get the stuff?” The words make Stiles blush further and he curses to himself. Jake gives him a devilish grin and slings his backpack off, letting it hit the ground with an unceremonious thump._

_“Got it.” He says, and Stiles nods once, moves from one foot to the next. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, but Jake suddenly makes a decision for him. The other boy pulls Stiles in towards him, their faces close, both flushed,_

_“Nervous?” Jake’s voice is low and steady and, for some reason, it sends a shiver of heat straight to Stiles’ groin,_

_“Hell no.” Stiles swallows, “I’m not nervous.” It’s clearly not convincing, but Jake just gives him a small understanding smile. He pulls away slightly, so he can look Stiles in the eyes,_

_“…It’s ok.” He suddenly says, “You know, to be nervous. I’m kinda way nervous, actually…” They don’t really talk to each other this way; they’ve never exactly had the need to communicate feelings with anything other than their downstairs-brains, and that’s served them just fine up until now. Stiles swallows thickly; the raw emotional availability Jake is offering him turns him on in a way he hasn’t experienced before._

_“Ok, I’m definitely nervous too.” Stiles whispers in a rush of breath, just before he closes his lips over Jake’s. The kiss is heated and slightly sloppy, but it ignites something in them, melts away some of their inhibitions, leaves them wanting more as quickly as they can give it._

_Jake’s tongue slides over Stiles’, and their teeth click as Jake backs Stiles up towards the couch._

_“When are your parents going to be home?” Jake breathes, tearing Stiles’ shirt off._

_“They should be gone all day…” Stiles groans as Jake lets his hands wander down to where Stiles’ jeans are tight across his erection,_

_“Good.” A sly smirk flashes across Jake’s lips, “Let’s do it here.” He says, his voice husky, daring. It sends a thrill up Stiles’ spine._

_“What? On the couch?” Stiles gasps as Jake’s fingers slip past the opened fly of his pants, his teeth grazing along a heated shoulder._

_“Yeah, on the couch.” Jake’s voice is muffled against Stile’s skin. Stiles wraps his fingers around the waistband of Jake’s gym shorts and pulls them down as best he can; Jake shimmies out of them and presses Stiles down into the cushions,_

_“If we ruin the couch, you get to explain it to my mom.” Stiles jokes and Jake’s laughter hums around one of his nipples, making Stiles hiss. Jake travels lower, and Stiles’ stomach muscles tense up as Jake starts to suck a wet hickey into the taut skin near his navel._

_“Deal.” Jake replies, smiling devilishly, “I’ll do whatever the hell you want, Stiles, as long as I get to fuck you.” The words, thrown out there into the open on the silky rumble of Jake’s voice, make Stiles’ dick jerk and he has to suck in a sharp breath. A shiver of apprehension makes its way up the back of Stiles’ arms again, but it’s masked by the wave of undiluted lust suddenly invading his brain. Stiles drags his hand through Jake’s hair, almost tugging too hard in order to get him to come back up so their eyes are level. Stiles kisses Jake long and deep before pulling away, his lips slick,_

_“Do it.” He whispers, and Stiles watches Jake shiver slightly, his muscles bunched in tightly coiled expectation, his mouth slightly slack,_

_“You sure?” Jake is a fucking saint for even bothering to ask, especially since it looks like it takes all he has not to just roll Stiles over right then and there._

_“Don’t fuckin’ ask me that, man.” Stiles laughs nervously, “I might change my mind…” Jake watches him carefully for a long moment, and Stiles nods encouragingly._

_“Ok. Ok.” Jake repeats, and leans down to let his lips graze against Stiles’ in a chaste kiss, but there’s nothing chaste about the way he also lets their hips meet and grind, hot and teasing. Stiles can’t help the whimper that escapes between his clenched teeth as he laments the thin fabric that separates their rock-hard erections._

_“Ok, but let me know if you want me to stop.” Jake says as he gets off Stiles and reaches for his backpack; he gets out condoms and a bottle of lube. Stiles leans up onto his elbows and stares at the supplies a little warily. They hadn’t really planned this, exactly. It had all started with one of them saying, ‘Dude, have you ever wondered what anal is like?’ So, no, it isn’t the most well thought-out or even remotely romantic plan out there.  
While their intentions are heartfelt and gentle, their intimate endeavors are produced by boy-like curiosity and awkward adolescent sexuality; they lack the refined touches a mature relationship warrants, and while that is no fault of their own, eighteen-year-old Stiles still can’t keep the somewhat frightened shiver from raising the hairs on the back of his neck as he watches Jake squeeze out some lube on his fingers._

_“Just remember to relax.” Jake advises as he leans over Stiles once more,_

_“Easy for you to say,” Stiles laughs nervously, “You’re not the one who’s gonna have a—” Jake chuckles and cuts him off with a searing kiss, their tongues warring._

_“Dude, we can switch later…” Jake murmurs against Stiles’ lips, and Stiles feels himself calm down slightly, the worry slowly unraveling inside his brain._

_Jake sheds his boxers and Stiles does the same, the sudden cool air against hot skin giving them goose bumps. Jake sits up on the couch and motions for Stiles to straddle him,_

_“This is so fucking awkward…” Stiles says around a smirk, and Jake just laughs. With a hand on the back of Stiles neck, Jake leads him down for a kiss again, and this time there is no letting up. Stiles feels his ass settle on Jake’s thighs, hyperaware of the way their skin feels pressed together, burning hot. Jake takes his other hand, the one with the lube, and grabs his own dick, slicks it up. He then reaches out for Stiles’, which has gone a little soft, and begins to jack both of them off at the same time, the sound of the lube squelching between his fingers obscene and somehow hot as hell. Stiles moans as Jake sucks at his bottom lip, his hands grasping the back of the couch in a death grip. Jake is fast as he gets a bit more lube on his fingers, lets his hand travel around to Stiles’ ass…_

_“Relax.” Jake whispers around more kisses, and Stiles lets out a deep breath. The sensation of Jake’s fingers on him, pressing into him one at a time, slowly working him open, is terrifyingly foreign and strange; it hurts a little bit, sometimes a lot, but it isn’t as bad as Stiles thought it would be. After a while, Stiles doesn’t really get hung-up on the awkwardness or being self-conscious. He figures after having Jake’s fingers in his ass, it can’t really get any weirder anyway._

_“How does it feel?” Jake asks after a while, two fingers scissoring. Stiles half groans, half grunts,_

_“How do you think?” He jokes, and his face is flushed, cheeks dark red. Jake hasn’t stopped working Stiles’ dick the whole time, and when he rubs a thumb over the weeping slit, Stiles shudders, the motion making Jake's fingers sink deeper._

_“Looks like it feels good.” Jake murmurs mischievously, and Stiles bites his lip,_

_“Fuck you, jerk.” He laughs shakily, and Jake suddenly removes his fingers completely, leaving Stiles feeling empty in the weirdest way._

_“Oh, I’ll be the one doing the fucking.” Jake growls around a smile and maneuvers Stiles off him, lets him sink down onto the couch on his stomach. Another thrill runs down Stiles’ spine, but this time it’s not really fear, it’s delicious anticipation, and it goes right to his straining cock.  
Jake is rolling a condom onto his erection when he catches Stiles’ gaze,_

_“You ok?” Jake asks, making his way back to the couch. Stiles sucks in a lung-full of air, lets it out slow and soundless,_

_“Yeah, man. I’m good.” He replies as he grabs one of the couch pillows and jams it under his chest, so his chin is propped up._

_“Um, how should we…” Jake is hovering around him, moving limbs here and there, trying to find a position. Stiles abandons the pillow, gets up on his knees,_

_“Do you want me to…” Suddenly the awkwardness is back ten-fold, “Here. I can kneel…like this…” Stiles settles on all fours and Jake gets behind him, his fingers grazing the smooth skin of his hips. Stiles trembles slightly when he feels more lube, cold and wet, and then fingers again,_

_“Dude, don’t just put it in without warning me though. Tell me when.” Stiles suddenly says, and Jake stills for a moment behind him,_

_“Yeah, ok. I wasn’t going to.” He says, his fingers working again. Stiles jerks slightly when Jake’s fingers touch a spot in him, the bundle of nerves sending a shock of pleasure straight to his aching dick. Jake tries to find it again when Stiles lets out a shaky moan,_

_“Are you ready?” Jake leans forward and plants an open-mouthed kiss between Stiles’ shoulder blades, eager._

_“Yeah,” Stiles doesn’t sound as sure as he’d like to, “Just go slow.” He adds, his tone slightly sharp, a warning._

_“Ok.” He says, barely audible, as he grabs his dick and lines it up, presses forward at a snail’s pace. Stiles tries his hardest to relax his muscles, to accommodate Jake’s length and girth. It’s slow going, and a few times Stiles wants to tell him to stop, but then there’s that spark of pleasure again, easing the burn._

_When Jake bottoms out, he lets out a long breath, as if he’s been holding it in the whole time._

_“How is it? Are you ok?” He repeats. Stiles’ arms are shaking from holding his weight up, but he laughs slightly,_

_“M’fine… Just. Don’t move.” He says a bit breathlessly. Jake nods but then realizes Stiles can’t see it._

_“I won’t.” He replies and strokes Stile’s hips, eyes glued to where they’re joined together,_

_“God, it’s so tight, Stiles.” He whispers, his voice awed, “Seriously, like way tighter than pussy.” Stiles is about to make a smartass remark when the worst possible sound in the whole entire world reaches him: the tell-tale squeak of the front door rings in his ears like a clap of thunder and the voices of his parents freeze the blood in his veins._ Oh my God…

_Stiles rears back, throwing Jake off him, and scrambles for his clothes, but not before both his father and his mother catch an eyeful of their son having sex on the living room couch. Gay sex, at that._

_It’s as if the world stops spinning on its axis, and the four of them stand stock-still, their eyes glued unblinkingly on each other, nonplussed. And then the world implodes._

_His mother screams something at the top of her lungs, but Stiles is pretty sure it’s no word in the English language. It’s probably not a word at all, because the look on his mother’s face tells him there are none adequate enough to articulate what she has just witnessed._

_His father’s face goes from disgust to shame to rage to disgust again, and then a horrifically livid expression settles on his features; it’s a poisonously hateful expression so absolute, Stiles feels it like a fatal wound right in the chest. It’s a look Stiles has never in his entire life seen on his father’s face, and the fact that it’s an expression reserved just for him sends a fear so pungent and grotesque through the core of Stiles’ entire being he honest to God wishes he were dead at that very moment._

_“Stiles.” His father’s voice is low and menacing, but he can detect other emotions there too: confusion, guilt, revulsion, sorrow…_

_“Dad.” Stiles voice is so broken up it’s hardly audible, “Dad. Please, let me explain, let me—”_

_“There’s nothing to explain!” His father’s voice suddenly booms, and his entire face is red with rage, “It’s all too clear what’s going on here!” He snaps,_

_“You!” His father points warningly at Jake, who looks like he might be sick, “Get the hell out of here!” Jake jerks forward, grabs up his clothes and barely has enough time to yank on his boxers before Mr. Stilinski is stalking around the coffee table, “Now!” he roars, and Jake stumbles as fast as he can out of the house, leaving his backpack behind, and not bothering to even glance back at Stiles._

_“Dad…Dad…” Stiles doesn’t know what to say, and has a sinking feeling that anything he says will only make things worse. Instead, he starts to back away from his father who is still marching forward, his frame shaking with fury. Suddenly aware of his nakedness, red-hot shame washes over Stiles again, and he rushes to grab his boxer-briefs and pull them on. As he’s straightening back up, he has only a fraction of a second to see his father’s open palm come crashing towards him; the resounding smack seems to echo through the room and Stiles stumbles to the side, nearly falling over the coffee table. The pain in his cheek and the blood he tastes on his tongue isn’t as bad as the dangerous resolution set in his father’s features._

_“Get the fuck out of this house.” Mr. Stilinski’s words are dark and razor sharp. Stiles doesn’t have to second-guess whether his father means them or not, but he can’t help but plead; this is his_ father, _Stiles reasons, he has to understand, to at least try to understand…_

_“Dad, please!” Stiles begs, his voice rising. He shuffles back as his father advances, “Just give me a chance!” His back hits the wall, and he looks over at his mother imploringly. She has tears streaming down her cheeks, but her crying is silent; she doesn’t meet his eyes, even when he calls out to her, begs her to let him explain._

_Mr. Stilinski comes right up to Stiles, his large figure looming over his son’s trembling form,_

_“I’ll only warn you once, boy.” The words rumble through his father, but Stiles can barely hear them as Mr. Stilinski’s hand comes up to cuff him hard upside the head, sudden and unyielding._

_“Goddammit, I said get out of here!” He says through clenched teeth as he grabs Stiles up by his forearm roughly and begins dragging him towards the door; Stiles stumbles after him blindly, his head still ringing._

_When they’re in the yard, Mr. Stilinski gives a violent shove and Stiles lurches forward, collapsing to the ground,_

_“I don’t want to see you under this roof again, boy, you hear me?” Mr. Stilinski roars, “I don’t want a damn thing to do with the likes of you!”_ _Stiles flinches away from his father as Mr. Stilinski looms precariously over him. His mother comes out onto the front porch, her wracking sobs now loud and relentless; the sound tears at Stiles’ ears like nails on a chalkboard,_

_“Dad!” Stiles tries again, “Why are you treating me this way?” He scuttles back along the dry grass, feels dry dirt dig into his sweaty palms, “This isn’t as big a deal as you think…” He tries to plead, desperate,_

_“I’ll be the judge of that, you no-good sodomite!” Mr. Stilinski fumes, “And I’ll treat you however I damn well please! How dare you bring that filth into our home, and disgrace our family name!” He yells, “How could you let your own mother see you that way!”_

_By this time, Stiles can see neighbors have come out onto their porches and wandered down the street; even Mrs. Landers has her screen door open, her expression surprised and confused. Guilt and humiliation course through Stiles’ veins like lead, and he wants nothing more than to be able to disappear into the ground forever. Maybe his father will put him out of his misery…_

_“I never want to see you anywhere near this family, Stiles.” His father storms “So help me God, you better not show your face around here again!” He turns on his heel and stalks back into the house, leaving Mrs. Stilinski still crying on the front steps. Stiles lays in shock for a moment, his eyes glazed, unaware his skin is damp with salty tears. He finally moves, jerks forward, his mind blank, stunned, incapable of any thought beyond the notion that soul-crushing shame and despair are starting to swallow him down, like a black and endless void, inescapable and utterly terrifying._

_He’s hardly aware he gets to his feet, hardly aware he moves towards his mother, arms outstretched, humiliatingly entreating, begging her for forgiveness. Flashes of his childhood come back to him, now destructive and painful: He sees his mother as he did when he was ten; he remembers her wrapping him in her arms, telling him she’ll always love her little boy; he remembers her laughter and her smile and her warm, tender eyes, a mother’s gaze full of joy for her child; he sees his father as he did when he was seven, remembers his father’s comical expression, his eyes twinkling with merriment as he reads Stiles’ favorite book for the hundredth time, never tiring; he remembers his father when he was fifteen, telling him to always keep his chin up and to always be fair; he remembers feeling pride for his father, a deep love and gratitude for his father…_

_All he wants now is to have that back, to somehow reverse the irreparable damage he has caused, to tell his parents he loves them..._

_His mother turns away from him, her eyes downcast,_

_“Just go, Stiles.” She whispers, her voice wavering, wet with tears, “Go.” She says. And Stiles thinks he could have handled his father’s wrath, could have weathered his father’s rejection, but to see his mother turn him away, to see her unable to meet his eyes…_

_Stiles feels like the ground is giving way from under his feet, and the edges of his eyes blur, as if he were going to start hyperventilating,_

_“Mom!” He sucks in a wracking sob, “Mother!” He cries, “I didn’t mean to hurt you—Just please let me explain all this!” He nearly screams, feeling as if he’s begging for his life,_

_“Please say you’ll forgive me! I’ll do anything you want!” His words are running into each other, his voice high, almost shrill,_

_“I never meant for this to happen! Just give me a chance, give me ten seconds to talk about this—” He doesn’t get to finish his words because his father suddenly bursts through the front door again, his 12-guage shotgun leveled in Stiles’ face._

_“I’ll only tell you one more time: get off my property.” Mr. Stilinski snarls, and backs Stiles up off the porch with the barrel of the gun. Stiles hears far-off commotion from some of the bystanders, and an immense hatred for them envelops Stiles, even with the crippling shock of fear piercing through his limbs and pounding in his skull,_

_“Dad…” Stiles whispers, and his voice is so quiet he’s not sure Mr. Stilinski can hear him, “Dad, I’m your_ son.” _He implores; it's his last effort to salvage the situation. Mr. Stilinski looks long and hard at the trembling boy before him, long and hard at the son he helped bring into this world, the son he loved and raised for eighteen years._

_“You’re not my son.” His father’s words are cold as ice, but leave Stiles feeling scorched, burned right down to his brittle bones,_

_“No son of mine would lay down for a man like a bitch. You’re nothing but a worthless faggot.” He doesn’t even waver as he presses the barrel of the gun to Stiles’ chest, urging him back farther. Stiles can see his father’s eyes flutter, his stern lips twitch; there is sadness there, but none for him. It’s sadness for the loss of his son, irredeemable and complete. And that’s when Stiles realizes there is no coming back from this; his father has made up his mind._

_“This is all your fault, Renee!” Mr. Stilinski calls back to his wife, who stands motionless on the porch, her eyes wide and her mouth hanging open wordlessly, “You coddled this boy when he was young! I told you not to over and over! And now look!” He barks, and his voice is wavering, the gun pressing harder into Stiles’ skin, “Now we’ve got nothing more than a good-for-nothing pansy-ass son of a bitch who has no right to call himself a Stilinski!” He snaps and spits at Stiles’ feet,_

_“My son might as well be dead.” His father adds, his voice dangerously quiet, but nonetheless savage and firm, as if he were articulating an indisputable truth. Stiles had never been afraid for his life before, but in that moment he feels terrified of his father, so terrified.  
Stiles takes off running down the street without looking back._

Stiles can’t bite back the sobs or halt the tears; they come unwanted and relentless, like waters finally breaking through a dam. He had pushed away those memories for so long, buried away his father’s damning words and swore he would never look back. Never.

And yet here he is, sitting by himself out on a tiny back porch with no one but the trees to hear him and the lake to comfort him, shedding tears he should have let go years ago. The pain is no different than it had been in the beginning. Touching those memories brings it back as fresh as if it had been ripped open right in that very moment. The wounds run so very deep, right down to his bones, and the salt he’s just thrown into them burns worse than any physical pain he’s ever experienced.

The sorrow and misery is always quickly followed by the dark crimson twist of brutal hatred and anger; the violent intensity that rushes up quick on the heels of despair is so ferocious and consuming, Stiles wishes it would be enough to end all this. He wishes he had the courage to do something, to wreak havoc on those who once loved him, on those who destroyed his life and left him with nothing more than empty years consumed by self-hatred and remorse. He wants nothing more than for his father to understand the unimaginable pain he put his own son through, but this cruel, destructive desire always leaves Stiles feeling wretched and weak, crippled by his own frustrating inaction.

Because as much as Stiles wants to hate his parents and his brother, he also still loves them. And it’s this miserable, persistent love that gets to Stiles the most; he thinks it would be easier if he could just sever all ties and leave the hurt in the past, but he can’t reconcile with the love he still has for a family that ultimately, up until the very end, loved him as well.

The Stilinski family hadn’t been dysfunctional, at least, not any more dysfunctional than the next family. Sure, they had their ups and downs, their family secrets and undeniable quirks, but Stiles can’t deny that his childhood was a tender and loving one: His father had always provided for his wife and children, had always been there to do the things fathers are meant to do with their boys: playing ball, riding bikes, coaching sports, cracking jokes…

His mother had always been emotionally invested in her children, always eager to patch up a scraped knee or give a pep talk; she found great pride and joy in raising up her boys the best way she knew how, and Stiles had always felt the affection poured into all her actions. She always gave all she had to her marriage, to her children…

Nick had been the stereotypical older brother, bossy and hotheaded, eager to come up with an infinite array of frustrating nicknames and eager to pull lots of endless pranks. While they had their fair share of fights, Stiles would never say Nick had ever been downright mean to him.

All in all, his childhood had been painfully normal, and that’s what makes his parents’ ferociously visceral reaction and final rejection the hardest to bear. It was true, his father had been a stubborn man, holding fierce opinions and set in his ways, but Stiles never imagined he could be so violent; and he never in a million years figured his mother had it in her to turn him away like that, so suddenly and completely. Nick hadn’t been there to witness the whole ordeal, but he never bothered to reach out to his younger brother, never bothered to hear his side of the story, and that had been the last straw for Stiles. He knew he couldn’t stay in Beacon Hills. He was sure he would rather kill himself than stay in Beacon Hills.

The months immediately following the incident are hazy to Stiles, but he remembers staying with the McCalls and talking with the police about the whole thing, about how his father had pulled a gun on him. But, above all else, he remembers the nightmares; he remembers jolting awake at night in a cold sweat, his father’s shotgun going off behind his eyelids. Sometimes he almost wishes his father had pulled the trigger…

After the ordeal and before Stiles left town, there was only one time he talked to his mother; she had arranged with the McCalls to speak with Stiles, and Stiles wondered fleetingly if this was her trying to reach out to him. Even so, Stiles hadn’t been able to look her in the eyes, the memory of he and Jake naked on the couch drilling shame and embarrassment deep into his heart.

“Are you really gay?” His mother had asked him. Her cheeks had been wet with tears, but her voice was almost clinical, detached. Stiles had thought long and hard about this, but wasn’t sure how to answer. One thing he was sure of though: he wouldn’t be able to lie to her, he wouldn’t be able to tell her what she wanted to hear.

Stiles had considered himself just like any other teenager, any other boy; he was aware that liking guys made him a bit different, sure, but his friends didn’t have any problems with homosexuality. Danny was gay and everybody loved him. So what if Stiles was experimenting? After all, Stiles had first lost his virginity to Mandy O’Conner, and it had been good. He didn’t mind vaginas. It just became clear in the last couple years of high school that maybe he favored the hard planes of a guy’s chest to a girl’s soft breasts…

So was he gay? Stiles hadn’t ever bothered to stop long enough to answer the question. He felt like what he was defied the box that label would put him in; it was the emotional attachment that was important for Stiles, and if he found that with a man, so what? He liked to consider himself an equal-opportunity kind of guy. But, if he had to choose, he supposes he would probably take an Alex over an Alexis at the end of the day.

He doesn’t have it in him to lie to his mother about anything at this point, and so he says,

“Yes. I’m pretty sure.” The sliver of doubt he admits between those last three words is no comfort to her, but the look she settles on her son has no anger in it, just grief and deep heartache,

“Ok.” She says quietly, and Stiles doesn’t know what to make of that,

“What do you mean…?” It rushes out on a hopeful whisper, quiet and desperate, but the expression on her face dashes any splinter of optimism he may have had,

“I think it’s best you leave.” She says, and her words are wet with tears again. Stiles melts in his seat, collapses back as if he’ll never be able to hold himself up ever again,

“But _why?_ ” He demands, and she gets up quickly to leave, “ _Why_ , mom?” He says again, his voice cracking around the words. She glances back at him once,

“We never wanted this for you, Stiles…” Her gaze is poignant, lingering, “Your father will never be able to forgive you.” And she leaves, closing the door behind her, closing the door forever on the only family Stiles ever thought he would have.

_We never wanted this for you, Stiles._ The words ring in his ears as he sits hunched over his knees in the dying light of another evening just like any other; the sun is indifferent to his grief as it bows its head below the horizon of dark evergreens, and the houses that sit on the other side of the lake watch him with their empty window-eyes but can’t possibly see his anguish. There is no one to share his pain with, and he’s never felt so alone in all his life.

_We never wanted this for you… You will never be forgiven…_

Stiles wants to rage against these words, they fill him with such black, twisted anger. He wants to throw them in his mother’s face somehow, wants to shove them down his father’s throat. _Why can’t I have whatever the fuck I want? So what if I want cock? So what if I want to be fucked? I never asked you to want anything for me, you self-righteous pricks!_ He seethes, _You ruined everything for me! You ruined my life!_ And the worst part about all of this is that, with the last words he heard his mother say that day, she condemned him to an irredeemable life forever denied the forgiveness he craves more than anything else in the whole world.

He knows, deep down in his heart, he isn’t sorry for being who he is; he’s come to peace with the reality that he won’t ever be straight, no matter how hard he tries. But he is sorry for the way they found out, sorry for his obstinate silence over the years, sorry for the heartache they must have experienced. He craves absolution and closure, and even a small taste of it would be enough to satiate him for a lifetime.  
But It’s the memory of his father that still keeps him away, keeps him so poisonously angry. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he saw his father now, after so long, after keeping him alive through nothing more than bitter memories. Stiles thinks sardonically, _Maybe the bastard is dead, it would save me a lot of trouble._ It's the kind of thought that no one actually means. Even though he still feels so angry, he regrets it the moment he lets himself think it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek has something of a heart-to-heart with his old man in the wee hours of an early morning, while, through someone's blundering mistake, Stiles finds out a terrible truth...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Werhooligan once again for the wonderful help!
> 
> And thank you to all the readers! I promise, Derek and Stiles will be meeting soon! ;)
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Angst. Not that that's new or anything...

Derek grunts and rolls over onto his side, the small couch creaking under his weight. He throws his arm out blindly, but misses the coffee table. _For fuck’s sake, turn that shit off…_ Derek thinks grumpily as his cell phone rings for the second time, the sound seeming impossibly loud. He still has his eyes closed when he reaches out again, fumbling around until his fingers slide across the smooth surface of his iPhone.

“…’ello?” He grumbles, his voice rough from sleep.

“Derek, it’s your dad.” John says, and he sounds all too perky for being up at the crack of dawn, “Come on outside, son!” Derek takes a deep breath and throws his arm over his eyes, his ability to comprehend trailing about ten seconds behind his father’s words,

“What?” He grunts. Derek is so not a morning person.

“Come outside!” His father repeats, excited,

“What time is it?” Derek demands. He moves his arm away and his eyes blink open slowly; the room is cast in a very low grey light. Derek determines whatever time it is, it’s _way_ too early.

“It’s time to get your ass up, kid!” John laughs. Derek rolls his eyes and pulls his phone away to read the time for himself,

“It’s _five_ in the morning!” Derek snaps. There’s a moment of hesitation before his father replies,

“It’s five ten, actually.” John is completely undeterred, “So you better hurry up and get out here!” Derek scowls: he doesn’t know how in the world his father can still sound so damn chipper.

“Ok. Give me a minute.” He finally relents and ends the call before he changes his mind. He gets up, wincing as the pain from his wound shoots through the tense muscles of his chest. He tries to ignore it and grits his teeth as he shuffles into the dark bedroom to root around for clothes. He hears the blankets ruffle as Sarah turns over in the bed,

“What was that about?” She says, her voice still groggy. Derek can’t really see her in the darkness, but he can make out the shape of her face, watching him, her soft blonde hair curling around her bare shoulders,

“Dad.” He replies, yanking on a pair of jeans, “He wants me to meet him outside.” He strips off his shirt and goes into the bathroom, where he splashes his face with cold water and applies a generous amount of deodorant.

“What for?” He can hear Sarah’s voice, slightly muffled by a yawn,

“Not sure. He sounded kind of insane on the phone.” He comes back out to find a clean shirt somewhere, “If I’m not back in a couple hours, send a search party.” He jokes a little dryly, and Sarah laughs, quiet and soft. Derek stomps his feet into his shoes and snatches up a jacket, wondering briefly if he should grab his wallet or not, or maybe a hat. He’s heading for the bedroom door when Sarah stops him,

“Derek.” She says, and Derek turns in the doorway to look back at her. Her arm comes out to rest on the bedspread, her hand palm-up, fingers motioning him back. He walks over to the bed and puts his hand in hers; he can now make out her smile, even in the darkness. He leans over and kisses her softly on the lips, a chaste caress of skin.

“Have fun.” She whispers,

“Ok.” Derek lets his fingers slip out of her grasp and heads back for the door, his mind already on other thoughts. He wonders what could be so important his father has to be up at five, and why the hell does _he_ have to be up at five too?

The answer becomes all too clear when Derek steps out into the yard and sees the world cast in that singular early-morning glow that only happens right before the sun crests the horizon. Now he knows why his father wanted him to get up so early. John is standing on the dock, and in front of him a small flat-bottom skiff sits placidly in the water. It’s the same boat his family has had for years, for as long as Derek can remember. He can’t help the broad smile that splits across his face as he walks onto the dock and stops by his father’s side,

“When was the last time we took the boat out like this?” He muses, “I must have been, what…sixteen, seventeen?” Derek asks, and John gives him a goofy grin,

“It’s been way too long, if you ask me.” His father replies, and leans down to toss the oars into the boat, motioning for Derek to get in.  
Taking the boat out early in the morning had always been an unspoken tradition for them. As the only two men in a household of women, the boat was the unfailing herald of father-son time. Derek remembers all the most important conversations he ever had with his father had been in that boat. 

He smirks as he recalls how his father had thought it would be a good idea to have _the_ talk with him out there when he had been thirteen or fourteen. He remembers how badly he had wanted to throw himself overboard and swim to shore because he had felt so awkward about it. There were plenty of other times though when they had been out there just for fun, to fish or to swim out in the middle of the lake. Derek had loved every second of it.

John lowers himself into the boat slowly and carefully, his joints popping and a slight frown gracing his silvered features. Even though he tries not to, watching this makes Derek all too aware of the years that have gone by, of how old his father has become. It sends a sliver of sadness creeping up Derek’s spine, but the realization that he can’t do anything to stop time or make up for all the years lost is even more poignant. He takes a deep breath and lets this train of thought go as his father turns and blinds him with an excited smile as he drops down into the stern and grabs up the oars. Derek is glad some things don’t change, like his father’s smile and his enthusiasm for things like this.

Suddenly Derek shifts forward in the bow and starts climbing over the seats,

“Switch me.” He says, and John gives him a questioning grin,

“Should you be rowing?” He demands, even as he’s maneuvering himself around to Derek’s old spot. Derek gives him a noncommittal shrug, all the while thinking about how if he’s not supposed to be driving yet, _rowing_ is probably most definitely out of the question. But there’s no way he’s going to tell his father that,

“I’ll take it easy.” He replies, and slips the oars into the rowlocks. Right now he just wants to feel the pressure of the water parting around the vessel and the satisfying slice of the oars through the water. He knows he’ll probably regret it later when the pain burns like fire in his lungs, but he wants so badly to feel some semblance of power, of control, even if it’s as simple as rowing a damn boat over the lake.

John sits back in his seat and looks smug as Derek begins propelling the skiff forward,

“Well, this is nice.” He says, “I should hand over rowing duty more often.” He says and Derek chuckles,

“Don’t push your luck there. I can still play the crippled card at any time.” He jokes good-naturedly, and tries to keep the grimace off his face as a pinprick of white-hot pain shoots up his shoulder in protest. The satisfaction of powering the skiff through the water is exhilarating though, and Derek takes to it with amazing vitality. 

They fall into silence as the sound of the water rushing past the boat picks up, a rippling murmur strong and constant, the swish and splash of the oars rhythmic. Derek watches as early-morning mist curls across the quiet surface of the lake and marvels at the reflection of the lavender-colored sky on the glassy water.

Once he reaches the center of the lake, Derek maneuvers the boat so they have a good view of the east and pulls the oars in. The sudden silence engulfs them once again, and Derek takes a deep, content breath. Out here, with the shore so far away now, the little houses on its bank look like fragile miniature structures, insignificant and obsolete, and the forest looms tall and dark to one side, seeming ageless and unchangeable.

John checks his watch and grins,

“Five thirty-eight.” He says matter-of-factly, and he turns his eyes toward the horizon. Derek follows his gaze to the east where the violet sky is quickly giving way to a burst of gold. It’s a brilliant myriad of color that chases away the rest of dawn and drives off the remaining mist. The sunrise is swift and enthralling, and the two watch until the sun clears the skyline, showering the lake with warm sunlight. Derek enjoys the feel of the sun on his skin and the way the light ricochets off the surface of the water and leaves it shimmering and alive.

“I’ve missed this. I haven’t been out on the lake in years.” John murmurs, his gaze still turned out over the water. His father doesn’t sound accusatory, but Derek still can’t quite place the tone of his voice. Something in it makes Derek mourn.

“I’ve missed it too.” Derek says after a while, and it’s true. His father turns to look at him, his expression nostalgic but content,

“Best sunrise I’ve seen in a long time.” John adds, and thumps Derek lightly on the knee with his closed fist. Derek suddenly feels his throat get tight, and there’s that telltale burn behind his eyes. He thinks back on all the years his parents have been alone, childless. Instead of losing one child back then, his parents had lost three. He and Laura had been too afraid to stay home and face the grief they all reminded each other of, just as they now remind each other how that same grief is still so alive. Even though he doesn’t want to, Derek is beginning to realize that smothering the open wounds with miles of separation and stubborn silence won’t make them heal. It only makes them worse. The thing is though, for Derek, there's something addicting about making it worse, about making it harder to bear. He thinks of it as payment for his wrongdoings.

“This is nice,” John adds. His tone is easy and sincere but oblivious to Derek’s discomfort, “having you and Laura back at the house, all of us together like this. It’s really great.” He looks so content and peacefully happy, it makes Derek feel miserable. He doesn’t think he’s ready to follow his father down the path this conversation is going, no matter how nonchalant it’s meant to be.

“Yeah.” Is all Derek can manage to say. He’s afraid what might happen if he says more. He’s scrutinizing the bottom of the boat, trying desperately to will the angry tears away, when he feels his father’s hand gently squeeze his shoulder,

“Derek. It’s ok.” His father’s voice is a low rumble, but Derek can still hear the waver in it, the tacit emotion. Derek blinks back his tears, feeling wretched; he doesn’t meet his father’s eyes when he finally looks up again, out over the rippling water.

“I’m sorry it’s been so long…” Derek begins haltingly, but doesn’t know where to go with it. There’s too much he wants to say. “I’m sorry.” Derek says again. John looks torn, his hand tightening on Derek’s shoulder,

“Better late than never, kiddo. It’s alright.” He says, trying to stay cheerful, and Derek gives him a weak smile, his eyes still damp. “Cora would be happy to see us all together like this.” John assures him, and Derek tenses up, his expression turning dark. He knows Cora has been at the root of this conversation the entire time, but bringing her name to the surface like this makes him clam up, makes that all-too-familiar rage and scathing self-reproach blind him. _Fuck, don’t bring her up…_

Derek shakes his head vehemently, the ill-tempered guilt sliding back onto his face in one fell swoop, like a muzzle,

“Dad…” He says warningly, imploringly. He’s willing to beg on his knees if it means he doesn’t have to talk about Cora with his father. John looks at his son with something like disbelief and sorrow,

“Well, she would!” He insists, his tone still calm, despite a more decisive note lingering in the words. Derek scowls,

“There’s no use in talking about what she would or wouldn’t be feeling!” He snaps, and his father’s face turns livid for a moment before the composure settles back on his crestfallen features.

“No use in keeping her memory alive by thinking she’d care?” He replies levelly, his voice low. Derek feels his cheeks heat with shame and regret,

“…That’s not what I meant.” He whispers after a strained moment of silence. The two men sit quietly, unable to say what they know they need to. The sound of the water lapping at the side of the boat is the only thing keeping Derek sane, keeping his degrading humiliation barely tolerable. John has to take a moment to push the anger away. He knows Derek doesn’t mean it, knows his son still holds on to the malicious blame like a vice he can’t escape.

“I’m sorry.” _For everything_. Derek finally says, his voice quiet. John nods, swallows thickly: he feels his son’s pain as if it were his own, and yet it’s still so unimaginable what Derek must have gone through after Cora’s death. It breaks his heart. John clambers over the seat so he’s sitting right in front of Derek,

“Son, you’ve got to stop being sorry.” His tone is unexpectedly sharp, and Derek’s eyes jerk up to his father’s level gaze in surprise. John peers at his son with all the love a father could have, his look tender and yet still firm. “We forgave you a long time ago.” He says, and for a moment he thinks he might have gotten through to his boy. God knows how long Derek has been waiting to hear those words, but all they do now is make him feel angry and indignant. His blank expression slowly turns into that of twisted spite.

“We?” He sneers, “You and _mom?_ ” He refers to her with nothing short of hatred in his voice. John inadvertently leans back, astonished at Derek’s vehemence, “I stopped believing she was capable of forgiveness a long time ago—”

“ _Derek._ That’s your mother—”

“And I’m her _son!_ ” He barks, “But that hasn’t stopped her from blaming me, from looking at me like I’m some sort of fucking _atrocity!_ I know what she thinks when she sees me…She thinks I should’ve been the one to die that night.” Derek tastes salt on his tongue and feels the wetness on his cheeks.

“I don’t blame her for despising me.” He adds. He understands that flavor of hatred all too well; after all, his mother’s hatred is only rivaled by his own. “I’d take Cora’s place if I could, without a second thought. I think about it every _fucking_ day!” He snarls, “But don’t sit there and pretend she’s forgiven me. She hasn’t even come close, and we both know it.” The silence that follows is oppressive and painfully abrupt. Derek can’t make out the expression on his father’s pale face as John scrubs a hand over his eyes, through his hair. It’s the first time in Derek’s life that his father can’t bring himself to meet his son’s burning gaze. John clears his throat, but his voice trembles when he replies,

“Derek, I love your mother.” He swallows thickly, “But the way she treated you was wrong, son. There is no mistake about that. You have to understand something about her though, Derek. If she holds anything against you, it’s only because she hasn’t forgiven herself for what happened.” John reaches out and rests his calloused hand on Derek’s tight fist, “I’m not condoning her behavior, but you have to know she doesn’t mean it. She blames herself, just the same as you do. And she made a mistake trying to push that blame onto you all those years ago,” Derek shakes his head and lets out a choked sound, half sob, half growl, as John leans forward to take up Derek’s other hand. He's not truly satisfied with his father's answer: _Mom wasn't the one behind the fucking wheel..._. But there's really only one question Derek wants an answer to,

“Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?” Derek whispers, his voice wet with tears. He detests feeling so weak and vulnerable, but a part of him yearns for the years when he was a boy, able to cry in his father’s arms without fear of judgment and ridicule from the outside world.

“She may not be all the way there yet, but she’s trying, Derek. She’s trying. She doesn’t blame you now for what happened to Cora. She knows it was an accident.” Derek bows his head, ashamed and discouraged. He knows it was an accident too, but it might as well have been something out of one of his nightmares, like holding a gun to his sister’s head and pulling the trigger… It feels like it might as well have been murder.

“You know who hasn’t accepted your apology yet?” John says decisively, and Derek feels bile rise in the back of his throat, followed by a bitter premonition. He already knows what his father is going to say. “ _You_.” John’s voice is so gentle it makes Derek feel sick. “What’s it going to take, Derek? How long are you going to punish yourself for this?” Derek feels stubborn anger flash through him, but he knows deep down his father is right,

“I can’t.” He whispers, “I can’t let it go…” John shakes his head and pulls Derek into a hug, his embrace almost too tight.

“You deserve to, Derek.” His father’s voice is muffled but Derek can still hear how sure he sounds, “You’ve beat yourself up over her death for so long, son. Now you need to forgive yourself. Now is the time to move on, to lay Cora to rest for good.” Derek wipes at his eyes and nods,

“I know.” He murmurs, “I know.” He knows without a sliver of a doubt that his father is right, but there’s some part of himself wants nothing more than to wallow in denial. There's a masochistic part of Derek that's still too strong, that still binds him to the consuming guilt and pain. He agrees only for his father’s benefit and makes no promises. He doesn’t want to drag his father down into the mire of hurt and hatred he’s sure he can never let go of. John pulls back and takes a deep breath, studying his son’s face imploringly,

“Have you been to her grave?” He asks, and Derek looks up at him sharply, his expression suddenly closing off, fast as quicksilver.

“No.” He says curtly, his tone unmistakably clipped. John takes hold of his son’s arm pleadingly, his look almost urgent,

“ _Derek_ …” He whispers, “You didn’t go to her funeral, and you haven’t been to her grave…” Derek shakes his head, immediately unwilling to hear another word. He pulls out of his father’s grasp and slips the oars into place so he can start rowing back. If there is one thing that dark, twisted part of Derek wants to avoid more than anything in the whole world, it would be visiting Cora’s grave.

“You need _closure_.” John tells him, but he can tell Derek isn’t in the mood to be taking any of his advice anymore. Derek takes a deep breath and meets his father’s gaze with a hard stare,

“I’ll be fine, dad.” He says stubbornly, “I just need more time.” He lies. He’s had plenty of time and none of it has gotten any easier. Derek doesn’t want their first outing on the water to end in an argument, and he can tell John doesn’t want it to end like this either, so the look he gives his father is compliant and entreating, if not altogether apologetic. _Let’s drop it,_ is the underlying plea. It’s against John’s better judgment, but he knows he can’t force Derek to do something he doesn’t want to. This is a battle he knows he won’t win all in one go.

“Ok.” John says, “Alright.” He wants to add, _You know I’m right though_ , but doesn’t. Derek already knows his father is right.

When they reach the dock, Derek isn’t surprised to feel sharp blistering pain throbbing deep in his lung. After mooring the boat, Derek and John part ways amicably enough, if not also a bit anxiously. Derek escapes to the shower, barely acknowledging Sarah as he comes into the apartment and starts shedding his clothes. He’s frustrated and in pain, and Sarah immediately recognizes it for what it is. She heads up to the house, leaving Derek alone.

The hot water helps relax his muscles and the steam makes it slightly easier to breathe, so Derek stays there as long as the hot water will hold out. He doesn’t want to be angry with his dad, and he’s not. If anything, he’s once again angry with himself. There’s no surprise there. But the thought of going to Cora’s grave is unfathomable to him. Derek knows Cora is dead, nearly a decade without her has made that perfectly clear, but going to her place of burial will make it completely, wholly, irreversibly real. Too real. Even just the thought of it makes Derek feel physically pained, as if a hole has been carved right out of his chest.

Derek lets his mind go blank and tries to keep it that way as he tilts his head under the showerhead. The water starts to run ice cold long before he’s ready to get out.

Derek gets dressed slowly and heads up to the house. He finds his family going about their own business: Liz and Sarah are going through bridal catalogs, so Derek stays far away, and Laura and John have just started a game of chess in the living room. Derek settles himself in his father’s armchair and watches his sister lose terribly,

“You were never good at chess.” Derek snickers, and Laura shoots him an evil glare,

“You aren’t much better.” She hisses as she loses her last bishop, but Derek just laughs at her. John chuckles at the exchange between the two, his look easy and smiling as he meets Derek’s gaze for a moment. Derek feels grateful he doesn’t have to worry about his father holding any grudges, and so he lets himself relax. Their conversation in the boat may not be the last he’ll ever hear on the subject, but for now Derek knows he won’t have to worry about it.

The morning creeps by and before Derek knows it, the sun is high in the sky. In the early afternoon, Sarah makes her way over and gives him a small smile. The two sit out on the back deck and Sarah laces her fingers through Derek’s,

“How are you doing?” She asks, and Derek gives her a crooked grin,

“Surviving.” He says, and looks around pointedly to make sure his mother isn’t around. Sarah laughs at his joke and nudges him teasingly in the side,

“Good. That’s what I like to hear.” She leans in and gives him a lingering kiss on the cheek, her nose crinkling up at the way his scruff tickles her.

“ _Please_ shave it off?” She pleads, and it’s the same request he’s been hearing for years,

“I like it this way.” He says, “Makes me look rugged.” He winks at her, trying to win her over, but she’s heard it all before,

“For the wedding, _please_ shave it off.” Derek feels his stomach flip-flop.

“Baby, you know how important my facial hair is to me.” He still tries for levity, “You’re pretty much asking me to stand at the end of the aisle _naked_.” She rolls her eyes at him, but grins at him anyway,

“You’re being ridiculous. I’ll let you off the hook for now, but I’m definitely going to convince you to get rid of it. Just wait and see.” He looks at her dubiously. There’s no way that’s happening. She gets up and hoists her purse over her shoulder,

“I’ve got errands to run in town for the wedding and I’m going to pick up a few groceries from WinCo. Want to come?” The thought of doing anything related to the wedding makes Derek feel like he’s going to have a heart attack, and it seems pretty early on both Liz and Sarah decided he would be rather useless for the majority of the planning anyway. “Just show up.” His mother had teased, which made Derek feel nauseous.

“…Uh, I think I’m going to rest up, actually. My chest is kinda hurting...Maybe next time.” Derek hadn’t told her he’d been rowing the boat all over the lake that morning because he knows she’d throw a fit, but he makes a point of massaging his left shoulder and stretching out the muscles, so it looks like he actually has an excuse. Before she can formulate any questions, he reaches up to pull her down into another kiss, this time on the lips.

“Ok,” She relents, “Give me a call if you need anything.” She says as she starts down the steps. When she waves at him as she’s getting into the car Derek can see the engagement ring glint in the sun, a satirical reminder of a decision whose consequences are suddenly coming to regretful fruition all too soon.

Derek watches the Passat pull out of the driveway and head up towards the main road. _So, this is my future._ He thinks sullenly, _Spending my years watching my wife run errands while I sit at home being a useless shit. We’ll get old and gray and bitter with nothing to look forward to other than the next grocery run._ He shifts in his seat and winces when the dull ache in his chest becomes a biting sting. He slowly gets up in order to reluctantly hunt down some Vicodin, hoping maybe it’ll help numb his bad attitude as well as the pain.

# ▲▼▲▼▲▼

The sun filtering in through the tinted glass window throws yellow light between the tall shelves stacked high with an endless collection of books. Particles of dust dance in the rays of sunlight and stay suspended in the middle of some mysterious choreography. The floorboards creak when Stiles makes his way down the narrow aisles, his fingers tracing the spines of books older than he can readily guess. The second-hand bookstore smells musty, like yellowing pages and threadbare bindings. It’s not a bad smell. It’s a dry, ancient smell that reminds Stiles of ink long worn out on thin pages and names of authors obscure and long forgotten.

The bookstore may smell old, but it was opened after Stiles moved. He doesn’t even know the owner, who greets him pleasantly and obliviously. It’s strange to be in such an unfamiliar place when Beacon Hills lays right outside the front door, disturbingly familiar and inescapable. Stiles appreciates the anonymity of it.

“I haven’t seen you in here before.” The shopkeeper is an elderly man with a short gray beard and cheerful, crinkled eyes, “Are you visiting?” He asks conversationally. Stiles grins at the irony, but the accompanying pang of vexation is somewhat surprising. He wants to tell the man, _No, I’ve grown up in Beacon Hills my whole life. I probably know this town better than you do._ But, instead, he replies somewhat ruefully,

“Just passing through.” And it’s true. In a couple months, he’ll be back in Chicago. He has mixed feelings about this, and he has even more mixed feelings about having mixed feelings. He figures it’s better not to poke the bear with a stick, and so he leaves that impending calamity for another day, another struggle.

In a dimly lit corner at the back of the store, Stiles finds what he’s looking for. He quickly locates a collection of Shakespeare’s works. There’s no question about whether or not he’s going to get a copy of _Hamlet_ , and while the binding on the anthology he chooses is a bit tattered, he likes the worn feel it has between his hands. He skims the shelf and picks out a slender copy of Dante’s _Inferno_. He also happens across a more recent textbook on folklore and mythology and decides to add it to the list. Stiles has always enjoyed the Classics, English literature, and above all else, anything that involves lore and legend; a buff of all things supernatural, Stiles jumps at the chance to add another book on the subject to his collection.

The shopkeeper looks impressed when Stiles presents his findings at the cash register,

“No light reading for you, I see.” The man grins as he holds up Dante’s _Inferno_ in his hand,

“Motivational reading.” Stiles explains, his tone comically nonchalant, “It makes me feel better about life when I think to myself: Well, it could be worse.” It’s a joke, and the elderly man laughs. The man’s eyes crinkle shut when he chuckles, and it makes Stiles grin along with him,

“Life definitely isn’t so bad if you compare it to the nine circles of Hell.” The man agrees, and slips the books into a bag,

“Well, you enjoy your afternoon.” The man walks him to the door and Stiles thanks him before heading to his car.

The old, beat-up Bronco is a reliable form of transportation, once the thing actually gets running. It had been Scott’s first car back in high school, and somehow the thing was still alive. Stiles drops the bag of books into the passenger seat and gets the key into the ignition. The engine turns over a couple times before it rumbles to life, and Stiles jams his sunglasses on as he pulls out of the driveway, feeling accomplished with his latest purchase.

Sitting in the parking lot of WinCo drains that sense of accomplishment right out though. Grocery stores might very well be the bane of his existence, so long as he has to do any grocery shopping in Beacon Hills at least. Grocery stores mean lots of people, and lots of people mean awkward potential run-ins with childhood acquaintances and estranged family-friends. But his fridge has no beer or milk in it, and his cupboard is out of Lucky Charms. He thinks to himself that if he has to survive a trip to the store, beer and cereal are definitely good enough reasons to attempt it. He tries not to freak himself out by constantly scanning the parking lot for familiar faces as he makes his way to the entrance. Once he gets inside, he thinks about leaving his sunglasses on while he hunts for the alcohol, but he figures the chances of getting the cops called on his sketchy ass is much greater than him running into an old neighbor.

He angrily shoves his aviators into his hair and nearly knocks over a stand of hand baskets in his effort to pull one off the top. Not a good start. He makes a beeline for the refrigerated area and begins to calm down once he realizes that the only one freaking out is him. He doesn’t immediately recognize anyone, and no one seems to give him so much as a glance as he begins to slow his pace. _I’m so fucking ridiculous_ , Stiles laughs at himself as he turns the corner and sighs in relief as he finds the beer. He pulls two six-packs down and instantly regrets the hand basket.

Stiles is standing in the cereal aisle with the beer sitting on the floor at his feet. He’s certainly put on some more muscle since his high school days, but switching the basket from hand to hand still gets tiring fast. He’s contemplating whether he wants to change things up with Cinnamon Toast Crunch or stick with Lucky Charms when he hears someone call his name,

“Stiles?” He immediately wonders if he’d be able to knock himself out if he hits his head hard enough against the shelving. “Hey, Stiles!” It’s a woman’s voice, but it’s only vaguely familiar. Stiles takes a moment to compose himself before turning around, both hands still occupied with boxes of cereal.

“Hey…” He replies automatically, and has to take a moment to recognize the woman standing in front of him. She’s pretty and slender, with wavy blonde hair and a beautiful smile. _Oh, it’s Sarah Beals_. Stiles thinks, and doesn’t mind smiling a little wider just for show. He never really knew her all that well in high school, other than the fact that she was the luckiest girl in the whole fucking county because Derek Hale was her boyfriend. They had chemistry class together, but he only remembers because Sarah had been spectacularly bad at it. He thinks they may have worked on a project or two together in ASB, but he isn’t sure.

“How are you doing?” She says, her voice perky and her smile overly pleasant in that way only near strangers try to be. He can’t help but keep eyeing her warily, despite her friendly and innocent demeanor,

“I’m, uh, good.” He says, and nearly forgets to be polite and return the pleasantry, “How are you?” She doesn’t seem fazed by his rather close-lipped behavior,

“I’m well,” She smiles, “It’s good to see you. Liz mentioned you’re staying at the McCall’s cabin across the river.” _Goddammit, everyone knows everything around here..._ Sarah notices the way Stiles’ expression turns somewhat sour, but she isn’t deterred, “We’re not too far away, is all. Derek and I are staying with his parents.” She explains. Stiles nods on autopilot, a smile still plastered on his lips. He almost blurts, _Wow, how are you guys still together?_ but barely catches it.

“Oh, cool.” There’s a beat of silence, “You guys are still going strong. That’s really nice.” _For fuck’s sake, I sound like her grandmother,_ Stiles thinks to himself irritably. The thought of Derek Hale makes Stiles’ throat go kind of dry and his palms get clammy. Sarah looks really proud as she holds out her hand and lets the engagement ring glitter in the shitty fluorescent light. Stiles doesn’t know why, but the sight of it makes his stomach drop. He doesn’t really know Derek Hale, but a sliver of dark jealousy skips up his spine and settles in the back of his brain, even though he knows it’s irrational and stupid.

“We’re engaged.” Sarah says excitedly, as if the ring isn’t enough of an indicator.

“Congratulations.” Stiles replies a little hollowly. He really wants to say something now, like, _Well, hey, this has been nice, but I’ve really got to get back to contemplating the pros and cons of Cinammon Toast Crunch and Lucky Charms_ , but he can’t get himself to even open his mouth. Sarah looks momentarily lost for words, but her smile never wavers,

“So.” She says, the word elongated and sounding conspiratorial. It’s the kind of tone Stiles hates to hear in women. It usually means trouble, “Are you seeing anyone?” She asks. She has the best intentions, Stiles can tell, but that line of inquiry is one he has to shut down right away.

“No.” He replies curtly, and doesn’t even bother looking bashful. Sarah falters a little bit, her friendly expression turning into something a bit more confused.

“Oh.” She says, still a little thrown off, “Bad break up?” She guesses, and Stiles has to at least admire her for her tenacity. Stiles fights against the urge to explode in annoyance,

“No. Just…not interested right now.” He explains tersely. She tries to look understanding, even though Stiles knows she’d have no idea what that’s like,

“Well,” She says lightheartedly, “plenty of fish in the sea, right?” Stiles gives her a stiff smile,

“If there are plenty of fish, they’re not biting…” What he really wants to say is, _I’m not even fishing_ , but he tried to hint at that already and it didn’t work.

“The right guy will come along when you least expect it.” Sarah winks at him, and Stiles feels his cheeks heat up, “It seems like that’s how it always goes.” She’s trying to be consoling, but Stiles finds it stifling instead.

“Yeah…” He feels like he’s been blindsided by her frustratingly perky disposition. But just when he thinks he’s gotten a hold of it, her smile suddenly slips off her pretty lips and her features melt into something more like sympathy. She hesitates a moment before she reaches out and touches his arm comfortingly,

“I’m sorry to hear about your father, Stiles.” She says quietly. Stiles isn’t sure he understood her correctly. At first, he looks confused, then his brows furrow and he stares open-mouthed at her, panic slowly building low in his gut,

“…It’s a loss to the whole community,” Sarah is saying, her voice lowered, “I just want you to know, if there’s anything you and your family need, please…” Her voice trails off as she watches Stiles’ expression morph into something strange and uncomprehending.

“ _What?_ ” He finally says, the word stunted and abrupt, as if it took all he had just to get it out. He meets her gaze, his eyes wide and perplexed,

“What are you talking about?” He demands, and Sarah suddenly realizes Stiles has no idea his own father is dead. In a split second, her expression clearly mirrors Stiles’ in confusion, but there is an added degree of horror to hers, sharp and alarming. _Oh, shit, did I really just…?_ Sarah takes her hand off Stiles’ arm as if she’d suddenly been burned.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry.” She breathes in utter disbelief. She begins to make her retreat when Stiles reaches out for her,

“What do you mean?” He insists, his voice wavering with a strange desperation. Sarah just shakes her head, guilt coloring her pale cheeks. She pulls her arm free and abruptly rounds the corner; she can’t believe what she’s just done. She knows she should probably stay, help Stiles understand, even though she’s the last person on earth he should be hearing the news from. She knows she should stay, but the urge to leave the store and escape into the car is much stronger. Feeling miserable, Sarah doesn’t bother stopping off to finish her shopping. All she can think about is the look of terrified confusion painted across Stiles’ face in the middle of the cereal aisle.

Stiles doesn’t have the sense to go after her when she pulls out of his grasp. He feels as if he’s rooted to the spot, unable to move or speak, and the ability to form even one thought is proving to be unimaginably difficult. He swallows, but finds his throat is as dry as sandpaper; he’s staring at the cracked tiling at his feet, and is vaguely aware the cereal boxes aren’t in his hands anymore. They’re on the floor.

 _I’m sorry to hear about your father_ … In a crazy moment of clarity, Stiles snaps back to reality, but only long enough to realize there is only one thing he’s going to do now.

Stiles leaves the beer in the hand basket sitting on the floor and the cereal boxes lay forgotten by its side. Without so much as a sliver of consideration for anything or anyone around him, Stiles stumbles out of WinCo and makes his way to the Bronco. He’s trying desperately to keep his breath even, but the adrenaline and fear coursing through his veins has him seizing up in the driver’s seat, unable to suck in a lungful of air. Even though he thinks he might pass out, his limbs seem to be doing things of their own accord: he turns the car on, careens out of the parking lot, and heads back towards Scott’s neighborhood.

He’s not entirely sure what his intentions are as he drives through the maze of suburban neighborhoods he still knows like the back of his hand, but as he finally comes to a stop by the side of a quiet road lined with Japanese maples, he knows exactly where he is.

The one-story house sits silently on its little plot; the windows have new shutters, but the paint on the side paneling is peeling. The yard is more yellow than green, with a few scraggly dandelions going unchecked in its midst. It’s not as welcoming as Stiles remembers it. He wonders briefly if this is really even the same house. It’s most certainly the same front lawn he played in as a kid, the same front lawn he crossed everyday before and after school, the same front lawn his father disowned him in…

His father’s old Ford truck is gone from the driveway, and Stiles thinks the property looks horribly naked without it. Unless his father was in it, there would be no reason for the truck to be absent. The missing truck heightens the sense of foreboding crawling under Stiles’ skin. He knows deep down that something is very, _very_ wrong. It’s a terrible kind of apprehension that gives Stiles the courage to get out of the car and ignore the fear screaming inside his brain, warning him away. 

And it’s gut-wrenching dread that leads him back to the door of his childhood home.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles finally goes back home and ends up confronting his brother, Nick. He finds out not all is as it seems. Will the brothers take the first few steps toward salvaging their relationship?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks Werhooligan once again! :)
> 
> And thanks for sticking with it guys! The kudos and comments are much appreciated as well!

Stiles is terrified to see his father again, and he doesn’t know what he’d do if he did. He definitely hasn’t thought that far. As he's standing in front of his childhood home though, some twisted sixth sense is telling him it won’t be his father answering the door, that his father may not even be around to answer any doors at all…

Stiles feels like the contents of his stomach might try to resurface, and his ears are ringing loudly from the blood rushing around in his head. Lifting his hand to knock on the door seems like the most monstrously difficult task in the whole world, and when the sound of his knuckles rapping against the wood finally rings out, Stiles thinks it isn’t humanly possible for his heart to beat as fast as it is. He feels like he might explode, he’s never felt so anxious in his whole life.

The house is quiet, and for a while Stiles thinks no one will answer. Then the door swings open, the woman on the other side completely unaware of who her guest might be. But when she stops to study the man on her doorstep, she looks as if she’s seen a ghost.

Stiles feels his heart jump into his throat. He can hardly believe his mother is standing in front of him, as tangible as the ground beneath his feet. He hasn’t seen her in nearly ten years and the sight of her now doesn’t make him angry, as he had thought it would. Instead, he feels inconsolable: the years of pain and intense hurt are staring him in the face right alongside his mother. And the time he's clearly missed out on is razor-sharp and undeniable in the way she looks worn and tired, her hair streaked with gray and her skin pale. She looks so fragile.

In her wide eyes, there is a dull, defeated glimmer, as if she has given up something of herself that she will never get back. Her features are emblazoned with stark disbelief, but then the surprise begins to dissolve into something else. At first, Stiles thinks his mother isn’t happy to see him, and why would she be, he thinks. He wasn’t exactly expecting a warm welcome. But a strange sort of grief and maybe a twinge of regret flits across her astonished face, and that same foreboding sense of tragedy begins to itch at Stiles’ brain. His mother isn’t worried about him finally showing up, she’s worried about what her boy is about to finally discover.

“Stiles?” She breathes and tears well in her unblinking eyes and slip down her thin cheeks. Stiles doesn’t know why his mother turns his name into a question: there’s no one else standing on her doorstep. He looks past her into the silent house. He can’t see much, but it looks sparse inside, like the home of someone sad and alone,

“Where’s dad?” He whispers hoarsely, the dread finally coming to a blaring crescendo. His mother lets out a strange sort of sob, sharp and overwhelmed. Her tears come fast and endless now, and the look she has on her face is tormented by despair beyond reprieve. Stiles feels fear bite into his flesh and seep into his brain like noxious venom. It’s a type of fear he’s never experienced before. It’s a poignant, anguished brand laced with a note of such hideous finality that Stiles fears it may be etched into his psyche for the rest of his life. This fear signals the undeniable realization that his father is truly dead. His worst suspicions have been confirmed in his mother’s one look.

“Where is he?” His voice is a bit louder, a bit higher, strained and desperate. He has to hear the truth first, he has to hear it from her lips. Renee shudders, her head shaking almost convulsively. She looks at him imploringly, begging him to understand something that Stiles finds completely inconceivable.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He demands, his voice pitched almost dangerously low now. white-hot anger flares up in him swift and unforgiving. “Why didn’t you tell me he’s _dead?_ ” He says, and this time the words come out of him nothing short of a roar. Renee flinches at the sudden outburst, and Stiles feels immediately both regretful and enraged.

Suddenly Stiles hears quick footsteps getting louder in the house, and a man’s voice travels out to them, his tone clearly concerned,

“Mom?” Nick walks around the corner and comes to an abrupt halt right behind their mother. Stiles stares at his brother, looking just as stunned at seeing Nick as he does hateful. His older brother has certainly changed over the years: he has facial hair that Stiles can’t decide makes him look older than he seems or not, and he has worry lines etched across his forehead. He isn’t as lean as he used to be, and the way he stands, slightly hunched, makes him look like he’s been weary for years. There’s no mistaking him though. In his eyes and the way his lips sit grim and expressionless, Stiles can still see a younger, more familiar, version of his older brother: the boy who lamented his baby brother’s existence all throughout their adolescence but always promised to have his back. What a promise that had turned out to be…

“Nick.” Stiles can’t help the way his brother’s name sounds as it rolls off his tongue, accusatory and betrayed. Nick’s expression turns from utter shock to something more obscure; Stiles can see pain and anger in his brother’s eyes, but he can’t quite tell where they stem from.

“Stiles,” He says, and his voice is deceptively calm, almost detached, “Let’s not do this here.” His tone is low, not quite a warning, but certainly not a plea. It infuriates Stiles, makes him feel so full of rage he scares himself. Nick motions to their mother, whose tears are still streaming down her face. She can’t bear to look Stiles in the eye, and he hopes it’s from shame. _Let’s not do this here for her sake…_ is what Stiles can tell Nick means. It’s a luxurious consideration he has no sympathy for.

“Why not _here?_ ” Stiles snaps, his fists clenched, “Why not right the fuck _now?_ ” He has to raise his voice over his mother’s sobs at this point, and Nick’s expression goes from barely tolerant to outright furious in the span of a second. He ushers Renee further into the house and tells her to stay inside, his dark glare never leaving Stiles’ own challenging gaze. Nick closes the door behind him and crowds into Stiles’ space on the narrow doorstep, but Stiles will be damned if he backs down now.

“Have some fucking respect.” Nick growls, and Stiles laughs in his face, harsh and humorless,

“ _Respect?_ ” He repeats, his tone disgusted as the word slithers off his tongue, “Respect goes both ways, you asshole.” Again, he finds his voice rising, “And you guys sure as fuck didn’t show any respect when you didn’t bother to tell me my own father is dead!” Nick is shaking his head, his tongue crammed between his teeth and his lip in that way he does only when he’s extremely angry. It’s a habit Stiles remembers even from their childhood.

“You didn’t give a shit when he was alive, so why would that change now?” Nick demands, and Stiles feels equal parts shame and indignation rush like a flood to his cheeks,

“He’s my _father!_ ” Stiles yells, “You think I wouldn’t care if he was dead?” Stiles feels tears pricking his eyes.

“You didn’t care for _nine_ years, Stiles!” Nick snaps back, “You’re too fucking late now! You should’ve started caring when it still mattered—”

Stiles doesn’t realize his fist has connected with his brother’s jaw until he’s already pulling his smarting fist away. Nick stumbles back against the front door, his shoulder knocking hard against the wood. He stares back at Stiles with shock and a sudden flare of violent anger as he swipes his fingers over his bleeding lip.

“There’s a difference between not caring and not calling.” Stiles growls, his breath labored. He doesn’t for a second regret punching Nick in the face. “I always cared!” His voice nearly reaches a scream, irate and, above all else, desperate, “And you don’t have a fucking _clue_ , Nick! _No_ fucking clue what I went through!” The look Nick settles on his brother is nothing short of resentful,

“It doesn’t matter what you went through, Stiles, because all you did was _run away!_ ” He spits vehemently, “And now you show up here, thinking you have the fucking _right_ to be offended. You think you’re the only one allowed to be angry and upset over dad’s death? Well, get off your fuckin’ high horse, you son of a bitch!” Stiles is floored by Nick’s intensity, but it’s soon matched by his own,

“I left because I was told to!” Stiles yells, “Did you miss the part about dad threatening me off the property with his shotgun?” He demands, his tone spiteful. Nick runs his fingers over his lips again and sneers,

“For fuck’s sake, he wouldn’t have pulled the trigger on his own son—”

“Don’t tell me what he would or wouldn’t have done, you self-righteous dick! You weren’t the one on the wrong end of that barrel—”

“You didn’t even fucking _try_ to work things out! You didn’t even try _once_ to get in contact with us for nearly a decade, Stiles! I don’t care what dad threatened you with, because it doesn’t make cutting us out like that any more justified!”

“And you think that doesn’t go both ways?” Stiles snaps and slams Nick backward into the door, his fists buried in the folds of his brother's shirt, “I never heard _anything_ from you guys! Not a fucking word!” He yells in his face. Nick gives him a poisonous look,

“Get your hands off me.” He says darkly. It’s clearly a threat, but Stiles doesn’t even spare him the decency of acknowledging it.

“Point fingers if you have a good goddamn reason to, you fucking hypocrite.” Stiles scowls, and Nick lashes out, pushing Stiles hard in the chest. Stiles doesn’t let go of his grip on Nick as he staggers backwards off the front step and the two go tripping into the front yard.

“Back the fuck _off!_ ” Nick snarls, but Stiles has no intention of letting up. He ignores Nick’s increasingly violent attempts to disentangle himself and instead pulls him in close.

“You want me to get off my high horse, Nick? Well, only after you get off yours first.” Stiles says angrily, driving the conversation back to his previous point, “Don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re the victim here, you asshole. Because, if anyone’s to blame for ten years of silence, it’s _you_.” Nick gives him a threatening shove, but Stiles jerks him forward again, their noses nearly touching, “Did you even try once to convince them to reach out to me?” He asks, and there’s genuine curiosity behind the blatant resentment, “Did you ever stop to think that maybe you could’ve changed their minds?” He yells, and Nick laughs meanly in his face,

“Why would I try to do that? You’ve been nothing but a selfish bastard!” He hisses,

“Why?” Stiles retaliates, “Because I want to live _my_ life _my_ way? Because I’m fucking _queer_ —” Suddenly the world is spinning, and Stiles feels pain radiate through his skull. His hold on Nick is broken, but not before he can yank his brother down into the grass alongside him.

“ _No!_ ” Nick barks, and, through the pain, Stiles can hear how his voice cracks around that one word, how some torrent of sorrow is released with that one syllable. It astounds him. “I didn’t try to reach out to you or change dad’s mind because you’re _gay_ , Stiles.” Nick grinds his teeth around the words, and Stiles blinks up at him through the pain still ricocheting across his skin. Stiles can make out angry tears on Nick’s cheeks,

“Dad and mom might’ve asked you to leave, you little shit, but _I_ didn’t.” Nick snaps, “…You didn’t just abandon us, you abandoned _me_. I waited for you to come around, Stiles, to talk to me…but you never did.” Stiles feels the fight drain out of him, and in its place is nothing but jagged heartache. “You left me to clean up your mess, and, yeah, I hated you for that. For _years_. But I was miserable the whole goddamn time because you were gone, because I thought you didn’t fucking care enough to at least contact _me_ …” Stiles swallows convulsively to try to keep the frustrated sobs away, to try to stay calm, but the tears seem to have a will of their own,

“I always cared…” He whispers, and it’s barely audible. “…I just thought you didn’t.” Stiles takes a deep shaky breath before the next words come tumbling out of his mouth, naked and vulnerable, “I was so mad, Nick, so fucking… _blinded_ by anger...” Nick leans over his younger brother in the grass and the two stare at each other long and hard,

“I think we both were.” Nick replies, and his tone is bone-weary.

 

The realization that perhaps they’ve spent the last nine years of their lives wrapped up in unfounded accusations and misguided false impressions is small consolation. Stiles feels brutally cut down to size by his foolishness and humiliated by his stubborn silence. He never stopped to think that maybe Nick didn’t share their parents’ views, and that maybe by assuming Nick hated him for being gay, he was alienating him for other reasons entirely.

Stiles is still laying in the lawn with Nick by his side. They must look like quite the spectacle, fighting in the front yard and collapsing in the grass. Stiles wonders if any of the neighbors saw, but he finds, to his surprise, that he really doesn’t give a fuck. The whole thing seems like a strange parody of Stiles’ altercation with his dad. But this time around, Stiles feels that, instead of breaking ties, maybe he’s started to mend some, even if it’s just a little bit.

The silence is heavy, but not as bad as Stiles thought it would be. They certainly have much more to talk about, but for now it seems like they’ve reached some sort of tentative truce. Stiles has to clear his throat before he can speak,

“…How did dad die?” He finally asks, and his voice is barely more than a whisper. Nick wipes at his still wet cheeks and takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“Heart attack.” He replies, and glances sidelong at Stiles, his look hesitantly sad. It's as if he’s looking to share that sadness with Stiles but is unsure his younger brother will accept the invitation. Stiles suddenly realizes how hard their father’s death must have been on Nick, who found himself abruptly alone in supporting their mother and alone in dealing with a broken family once more burdened with sudden tragedy. Nick had no one to share his dad’s death with; he had no one to turn to when his one and only brother should have been there for him, when they should have been there for each other.

“He went fast and painless, asleep in the armchair while watching TV.” Nick lets out a small, mirthless laugh.

“…That's good. That it was painless...” Stiles say eventually, and he’s surprised at how sincerely he means it. “How long ago?” He adds, and Nick swallows, looking painfully and remorsefully guilty,

“It’s been almost three months.” He whispers, “The funeral was April 25th…” Stiles feels a sliver of blazing anger again, but it fizzles out almost as quickly as it comes. He’s suddenly aware of how physically and emotionally exhausted he is, and his face hurts like a bitch. His left eye is almost swollen shut.

“Why didn’t you tell me...” He murmurs. It’s more petitioning than demanding now, even though a trace of offended disbelief still lingers subdued under his tone. Nick takes a deep breath and shrugs. Not in a way that indicates he doesn’t care or can’t be bothered to explain, but in a way that’s heavy with too many overwhelming reasons, some of them now made obsolete by their attempt to reconcile,

“When dad died, I got angry all over again,” He admits, and Stiles can detect a note of shame in his voice, soft but clear, “I was pissed you weren’t around like you should’ve been, pissed that I had to take care of one more disaster by myself...” Nick holds Stiles’ gaze when he adds, “I’m sorry for that.” Stiles feel his heart wrench, 

“I’m sorry too. For not contacting you, for jumping to conclusions.” Stiles whispers, and he means it. They still have a lot to resolve, there’s no doubt about that, but this is a start. It’s much more than Stiles would have anticipated in a lifetime.

“And mom? Why didn’t she tell me?” Stiles asks, and Nick can’t deny the way his brother’s words come out harder, sharper. He licks his lips, looks torn,

“She loves you, Stiles. She always has. But she took dad’s death really hard…She felt like it would only make things worse if you knew. She felt it might push you away even more—”

“How could it?” Stiles barely has the strength in him to snap, but he finds it anyway,

“She thought it might be the last tether for you, you know? She thought there’d be no chance you’d want to patch things up after that…”

“...Fucking _bullshit_.” Stiles mutters, and he feels the tears come again, “All she would’ve had to have done was get a hold of me years ago if she truly felt so damn merciful…”

“Would it really have been that easy?” Nick demands, a splinter of anger surfacing once more. Stiles doesn’t have to think long and hard about this. He knows the answer,

“…Probably not.” He concedes and swallows back the irritated guilt threatening to push its way up. No, it probably wouldn’t have been that easy, Stiles thinks bitterly. He recognizes that there's a selfish part of himself that still doesn’t want to let go of nearly ten years worth of built up resentment as it is.

“Besides,” Nick adds, and this time the antagonism has bled out of his voice for good, “She didn’t want to reach out to you alone. She couldn’t imagine fixing things without the support of her husband and the father of her child. She loves dad, Stiles… You might be her son, but dad is her other half, y’know. She was so torn between you two…still is.” Stiles’ features are grim as he stares up at the clouds passing overhead.

“I hope I never know what that’s like,” He finally murmurs, and Nick gives him a strange look tinged with surprise,

“…What?” He asks, his voice quiet,

“Love like that. Being half a part of something that can be so fucked up.” Stiles grumbles, and his eyes are dark, “I don’t want anything to do with love if the only thing it turns out to be is destructive.”

“Well, you know what they say, ‘love is blind,’ or whatever…” Nick replies slowly, not sure how to assuage his brother’s profound distrust of love, but he knows he wants to try. Stiles gives Nick an unimpressed look,

“You always sucked at trying to make me feel better.” He murmurs, and Nick can’t help the small burst of wistful laughter as it tumbles out of him,

“Sorry.” He says, and Stiles can hear that he means it so much. He shakes his head, a timid smile blooming across his lips as well,

“…It’s ok.” Stiles replies, “Thanks for trying.” _It’s more than I could've asked for._ Nick gives his brother a reassuring smile, genuine and heartfelt, and he hesitantly reaches out to grip Stiles at the nape of his neck. His fingers are encouraging and strong, even though the way he treats the gesture, cautious and uncertain, still resembles the kind of comfort he would offer someone he doesn’t quite know yet. The brothers are still all too aware of the many years that have turned them into strangers. But they also realize that perhaps they’ve just started drawing the blueprints for a bridge they will someday use to cross that cavernous gap.

Stiles gives his brother an impossibly grateful look, his throat choked up on words he knows aren’t adequate enough. Luckily for him, Nick seems to understand anyway. At least, he seems to be at the beginning of a long but willing journey to understand, and Stiles is thankful for the baby-steps they’ve made today, no matter how small and faltering.

But then Stiles hears the front door squeak open and a blanket of anxious, acidic fear descends on him again. His mother comes out to stand on the front step, her expression devoid of any distinguishable anger or accusation, but Stiles can’t detect any trace of comfort or relief there either. All Stiles sees is that the look in her eyes is plagued by a sadness still so profound and unresolved he doesn’t dare entertain the thought of touching it. He’s tackled enough for today, and crushing fatigue suddenly makes itself aware, like a dark icy wave barreling down on him. His mother doesn’t say anything as she stares at him, and he’s thankful she doesn’t look like she’s going to. He trades glances with Nick before rushing to his feet,

“I can’t.” Is all he says, and the look of alarm that crosses Nick’s face makes Stiles clarify quickly, “ _Today._ I can’t _today._ ” Nick looks pacified, and he slowly nods. He too feels impossibly tired, as if he’s expended more emotional energy in one day than he thought he was capable of in a lifetime.

“Ok.” Nick says, “I’ll tell her…you’ll be around some time?” He asks uncertainly. Stiles swallows thickly, the burning urge to run off leaving him coiled tight like a spring.

“…I don’t know.” He says honestly, but he does know he’ll have to face her some day, “I’m not making any promises, but tell her…soon. When I’m ready.” He replies, even as he’s backing away to the car. Nick nods again and looks like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. Instead, he gives Stiles one last discerning look, a new confidence burning in his eyes as he catches Stiles’ gaze. Stiles returns the look with an encouraging one of his own,  
 _Don’t worry. I’ll be back for you. I promise that much._

 

When Stiles gets back to the cabin, immensely grateful for its seclusion and merciful silence, he feels as if he can hardly keep his eyes open. Ironically, he literally can’t keep his left one open anymore, but the swelling and pain go nearly unnoticed. The psychological chaos rattling around in his brain and roiling under his skin is all consuming; he can’t break himself away from it, he doesn’t even have the strength to try. And he has never in his entire life felt so physically exhausted. He hardly has the will power to get himself into the house and to the bedroom, where he collapses on top of the covers like lead. The residual effects of the day linger like a disease in his bones, and a minute, perverse part of his mind cruelly wishes for the kind of finality only death can offer so he can feel nothing at all. He wants so badly to escape the unbearable pain of a broken body and a relentless conscience that won’t give him any peace.

The last thing Stiles remembers before drifting into fitful sleep is turning his cell phone off after seeing two missed calls from Scott, and wishing, like his phone, he could turn off his thoughts, his pain… He wishes he could turn off the world, or turn off himself.

 

That night, Stiles dreams. He dreams in terrifying shades of black and white that are saturated with the familiar taste of sour fear and cloying regret. Everywhere he turns it’s the same, pushing in on him, eating him alive. He can’t escape it no matter how hard he tries.  
Then he sees his father, but it’s not the man he looked up to as a boy. It isn’t even the fearsome man with a shotgun he remembers from the cusp of adulthood. This is a shadow of the human being he knew his father to be, a skeletal monstrosity with a hollow stare Stiles can’t break. He tries to close his eyes, but even when his lids are squeezed tightly shut he can see it clearly, as if it was stamped into his retinas.

His father is sitting in his armchair, his face gaunt and his eyes unblinking. Stiles knows without a shadow of a doubt that his father is dead as he sits there, but horror sinks its teeth into Stiles’ icy flesh when he sees his father’s mouth open and close, his lips forming words he can’t hear.

“What?” Stiles wants to say, but when he opens his mouth to speak the thick silence eats up his words, sucks them into a stagnant void.

“What are you trying to say?” He screams, but the stillness crams the guttural cry back into his mouth. He needs to know! He needs to know what his father is saying! He needs to say things of his own! He needs his father to hear him speak!

The man in the armchair continues to say things that never reach Stiles’ ears, and when Stiles tries to run to him, the armchair moves away. Like an optical illusion, his dad seems to recede into empty space, and when Stiles tries to run faster, the image of his father retreats just as quickly.

 _Please!_ Stiles thinks, _Please, please, please! I need to tell you I’m sorry, I need to hear your voice one last time…_  
The fact that his father might be granting him absolution with the soundless words that tumble out of his pale lips is eclipsed by the realization that Stiles will never get to hear them: even as his legs propel him forward at an inhuman speed, his father remains forever just barely out of reach…

 

Stiles wakes abruptly and in a cold sweat. He feels utterly soaked in it, and his body shivers convulsively even though it’s not cold. It’s bright enough outside that it’s probably already midday; Stiles pulls himself off the bed and begins stripping his clothes, but his limbs feel somehow detached from his body, like he can’t quite control them right. His throat feels like he swallowed sand, and his eyes are crusty with dried tears. Not to mention how he can hardly see a thing out of his left one. When Stiles remembers the way Nick had punched him in the face, the throbbing pain comes back in vicious retaliation. He hisses through his clenched teeth when he pulls his shirt over his head and shuffles into the bathroom. He blinks rapidly at the sudden flood of light as he switches it on, and when he can finally look at himself in the mirror properly he hardly recognizes the man that stares back at him.

 _Jesus Christ…_ Stiles brings one hand up to touch the swollen skin under his eye, the discoloration livid and dark. It was probably a terrible mistake to ignore the inflammation last night and even worse to sleep facedown on the bedspread. Yesterday’s events come crashing down on him again, but they still don’t come close to matching the dream’s magnitude as it lingers in Stiles’ brain like an unwanted guest.

He takes a moment to think back on the nightmare, touching it with his mind as if he were reaching out to a feral animal. There’s no mistaking the huge part of himself that still wants nothing more than to loath his old man, but the depthless pain at losing the only father he will ever have is much more consuming than the simmering hatred, at least for now. Stiles also feels a new kind of regret settle into his bones, and he knows its something he won’t be able to let go of easily: he no longer has a chance to ever make things right with his dad. And that’s something Stiles will carry with him until the day he too dies.

Stiles immediately shuts these thoughts away, locks them up in the hopes that he will never have to think about them again. He realizes he is safest if his mind remains devoid of anything, and that’s the way he wants to keep it.

Stiles fumbles through the medicine cabinet and wrenches open the bottle of ibuprofen. He swallows four dry before forcing himself to chase it down with water. The thought of consuming anything makes him want to puke; he feels like his stomach is raw and queasy. Whenever he remembers the way his father looked, dead in that god-forsaken armchair, he has to fight down the urge to gag.

 

Stiles sits in the living room and stares at nothing. Every once in a while, he wonders how long he’s been sitting there and thinks it’s probably been hours. He has no appetite, no drive, no desire to do anything. He doesn’t even have the energy any longer to dredge up the mental faculties needed to try to further rationalize last night’s dream. He doesn’t feel any anger, and he doesn’t even feel any sadness. All he feels is an overwhelming remorse that shuts him down and closes him off from everything, even himself.

When the sun reaches its peak and the stillness slowly begins to remind Stiles too much of the oppressive silence in his nightmare, he gets up and goes to open the freezer. He’s lucky there’s a tray of ancient ice cubes in the back, and he tosses them into a plastic bag and wraps it in a kitchen towel so he can gingerly press it against his eye. He also grabs his books and, more reluctantly, his cell phone. He heads outside to sit in the blazing heat out on the deck. He sets the books by his side but knows he probably won’t read them. Reading seems too ordinary, too _trivial_ , right now. But they make him feel more grounded as they sit there by his side. He feels a bit more normal this way, like it’s an average day instead of the worst day of his life. The comfort is glaringly superficial, but Stiles will take what he can get.

When he turns his cell phone back on, he stares at Scott’s missed calls long and hard. He doesn’t listen to the message Scott left his voicemail, but he does hit the ‘call back’ button and lifts the phone to his ear. The effort he has to put into it makes him feel like he’s holding up a brick, but he knows he’d rather get this done sooner than later.

“Stiles!” Scott’s voice sounds a bit worried, but mostly unsuspecting, “Hey, man, what’s up? It’s freakin’ weird for you not to answer your phone!” Stiles swallows several times, his brain seemingly incapable of forming a coherent thought to turn into words. The silence makes Scott antsy,

“Dude, you ok?” There’s a sneaking suspicion creeping into his tone, and Stiles finds he would rather beat it to the punch,

“I went to my parents’ house yesterday.” He says point-blank, and his tone falls strangely flat. Silence descends over the line once again until Stiles finally hears Scott suck in a ragged breath,

“Why didn’t you tell me beforehand, buddy?” Scott’s voice is low and thick with a keen sympathy, “I could’ve gone with you or something…” Stiles closes his eyes and brings the bag of ice up to his bruised face, relishing the icy sting.

“It was sort of…an impromptu thing.” He breathes wearily,

“…Why? _How?_ ” Scott’s voice betrays the confusion laced into the words. Stiles suddenly wants to be done with this conversation; he wants to go back to sitting as still as possible and doing nothing.

“Some bitch I ran into at the grocery store wanted to give me her condolences.” He replies evenly. He’s not angry, not really. He knows he rightfully could be, but that requires too much energy. “I didn’t know what the hell for, so I had to go find out…” Scott is quiet on his end, so painfully quiet.

“ _Fuck_.” He finally whispers, “Stiles, I’m so sorry.” Stiles hears Scott let out a sad groan, “You shouldn’t have had to find out that way…” _Yeah_ , Stiles thinks, _Was anyone every going to properly tell me anyway?_ He knows he could be angry about this too, but what’s done is done. He’s too tired to hang on to any more grudges. He lets the thick silence go on between them for a while before mustering up the courage to ask the one question he really called Scott about in the first place,

“How long did you know?” His voice trembles around the words. He can’t see Scott right now, but he can clearly imagine what kind of expression his best friend would have painted across his face. He knows Scott and his family would never hurt him intentionally, so he can’t find it in himself to hold their misguided decision to keep him in the dark against them, no matter how painful it may have turned out to be.

“A couple weeks. Mom and dad have known for a while, but they thought it’d be best to wait until we were in town to tell me and Allison…” Scott lets the words out as if they physically hurt him, “We didn’t know how to tell you, Stiles… Dad was trying to get a hold of your mom to let her know you’re in town, to get her to let you know, but she wasn’t taking our calls…” Scott’s sigh is heavy and ragged, “We never meant for it to happen like this…” He says adamantly, “I’m so fucking sorry...” Stiles bites his lips to keep the tears from coming.

“It’s water under the bridge, man.” He says, and he’s proud that his voice is still as steady as it is, “It doesn’t change the fact that I was gonna find out the same thing either way…”

“Stiles, where are you now? At the cabin?”

“Yeah, I’m at the cabin.”

“Come over, man. Let us help you with this, please…” Scott sounds so anxious, Stiles almost feels compelled to say ok. But the feeling isn’t quite strong enough the trump his desire to be by himself, silent and still.

“Thanks, Scott.” He knows better than to try to assure Scott he’s okay, but he adds, “I just want to be alone right now.” Honesty is the easiest thing to spew at the moment, and it’s the first time in Stiles’ life that he feels like honestly is uncomplicated.

“…Are you sure?” Scott murmurs, sounding utterly despondent, “Just say the word, and I’ll be over there, man. Any one of us would be there in a heartbeat, you know that…” Stiles nods his head, even though he knows Scott can’t see him,

“I know.” He says, feeling a wave of fatigue drop down on him again, “I’ll call if I need anything. I just want to be alone for now.” He says, and adds because he knows it’ll make Scott feel better, “I’ll hit you up later tonight, ok? _To check in,_ he doesn’t say. They’re probably afraid he’s going to do himself in or something… _And wouldn’t that be the fucking icing on a ten-year-old cake_ , Stiles thinks to himself.

“Ok.” Scott gives in after a long moment, “But, Stiles, seriously, if you need anything—”

“Give you a call, I got it.” Stiles says, and tries get his voice to sound a little bit brighter, just to make sure he doesn’t leave Scott worrying himself into hysterics.

“Alright…” Scott says, sounding a little chastised. He knows they wouldn’t necessarily be having this conversation if he had told Stiles about his father first, like he should have.

“Don’t worry about me, ok, Scott.” Stiles stresses, knowing that Scott must be feeling like shit right now, “I’ve gotten through worse, buddy. You of all people know that.”

“But nothing like _this_ , Stiles. You lost your father…” Scott presses, and Stiles has to fight the urge to let the guilt crowd back in on him, clam him up,

“He’s been lost for ten years, Scott. That doesn’t change a whole lot just because he’s six feet under…” He knows that’s bullshit, and Scott probably knows it too, but that’s all he’s got for now, all he can offer up.

“…Just…You don’t have to go through this alone.” Scott pushes, and Stiles sighs,

“For now, that’s all I want to do, ok?” He says, and his voice comes out rough around the edges, “I want to be alone. Period.” He doesn’t mean to be short with Scott, but he just wants to hang up now, to be done, “I’ll call you when that changes.” Scott doesn’t answer for a tense moment, but then his voice comes through the line, defeated,

“Yeah, ok.” A pang of regret courses through Stiles when he hears how understanding Scott is trying to be, “Call me whenever you’re ready, Stiles.” He waits a beat before adding, “I love you, man. Just want you to know that…” Stiles can’t help but let out a choked laugh, even as his heart constricts with Scott’s endlessly stubborn determination and patient kindness,

“There isn’t a day that goes by when you don’t remind me, McCall,” He chuckles, “…I love you too, buddy.” He adds after a while. Stiles hears Scott let out a quick breath,

“Ok.” He says, some of the perpetual worry gone from his voice.

“Ok. I’ll call you tonight.” Stiles reassures him, and Scott tells him he better. The two exchange goodbyes, and the world is thrown back into the late afternoon silence that’s only broken by the rustle of the breeze and the buzz of cicadas. Stiles listens to the sounds but doesn’t feel comforted by them; he feels the sun on his skin, but isn’t warmed by it. The sudden isolation presses in on him, and he’s surprised by a sharp stab of loneliness. It makes him feel stupid. _You asked to be alone, you idiot…_ and, yet, even though he doesn’t really want to see Scott or Allison, or anyone else he knows for that matter, he realizes too late that to be alone is really not what he wants and probably not what he needs.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 50k+ words later and they FINALLY meet! Thanks for hanging in there guys!
> 
> Extra long chapter here! I wanna give a shout out to Werhooligan for being so amazing and for sassy comments that make my day! ;)
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy!

Sarah is able to keep things under wraps for one whole day before everything starts to go to shit. The same afternoon she had run into Stiles at Winco, Sarah returns to the house and is both irritated and relieved to find that Derek and Laura aren’t around. It’s bad enough having four people to dodge after returning shamed and empty-handed, but, this way, she has to avoid only two. Fortunately for her, John seems to be busy out in the backyard, and Liz is sitting quietly at the kitchen nook, reading a book and sipping tea.

“Oh, back so soon?” Liz remarks when she glances up and sees Sarah enter from the living room. She seems only slightly puzzled by Sarah’s rather harried arrival.

“Um, yeah, everything went well with the wedding planner.” Sarah replies, her tone deceptively nonchalant, “But Derek mentioned his chest was hurting earlier, so I didn’t want to hang around town too long.” She adds, and hopes it explains why there are no groceries. She feels bad about using Derek’s injury as an excuse, but the words had come tripping out before she knew what she was going to say. Liz gives her a strange look, further confused,

“Oh.” Her mouth looks pinched as she presses her lips together in a discerning expression, “He seemed perfectly fine earlier. He and Laura wanted to get out of the house, so they went for a drive up to Diamond Park about an hour ago.” Sarah nods slowly, a twinge of jealousy smarting inside her chest. Derek had said he wasn’t feeling well enough to go anywhere…

“They should be back soon.” Liz adds and turns back to her book.

“Ok.” Sarah murmurs, “I’m just…uh, going to lay down for a while. I’m feeling a bit tired.” Liz looks up again, concern tripping across her poised features,

“Oh, darling, are you alright?” She asks, her tone motherly in a sugary kind of way, sickly sweet, “You’re not coming down with something, are you? That would be terrible, right before the wedding.” Sarah shakes her head almost too quickly,

“No, no…I must be a bit dehydrated, is all.” She replies, waving it off. Liz nods, but that puzzled expression never leaves her face,

“Well, make sure to drink plenty of water and stay cool. Today’s been a hot one.” She says and looks out the window where the sun is high in the sky. It’s almost late afternoon already.

“I will.” Sarah replies distractedly and heads for the back door. Liz watches her carefully, her confused expression slowly turning into curiosity.

 

“…Look, all I’m saying is maybe dad’s right, Derek. Visiting her grave will do you good.” Laura hasn’t let up on her line of attack even a little bit in the last forty-five minutes. Derek rolls his eyes and huffs an angry breath,

“Jesus. ‘Visiting her grave will do you good’…” He repeats in a derisive sneer, “You say that like you’re prescribing some fucking Prozac to make everything alright. What I need is _time_ , Laura. Like I told dad.” He growls, attacking the notion of seeing Cora’s grave in the hopes Laura will give up on it quickly. Laura shakes her head and turns away from him. Sometimes, just the sight of her younger brother gets her so mad, especially now. She gets up from the picnic table she’s been sitting on and wanders around the nearby trees. She watches some kids playing Frisbee nearby, their laughter ringing out clear and carefree. She puts her hands on her hips and turns to her brother again, a decisive quirk set on her lips.

“You know what, maybe some Prozac would do you good too.” She replies suddenly, and Derek trains a surprised but dark glare on her,

“Are you kidding me?” He nearly explodes, disbelief carved into every line of his face,

“No, I’m being serious.” She’s using her big-sister voice now, “Didn’t your psychiatrist recommend anything when you got back from that last tour or from the hospital?”

“I told her I didn’t want any of that shit.” Derek responds in an irritated growl,

“Well, maybe you should reconsider—”

“ _Laura!_ ” He snaps, exasperated, and she holds her hands up in defeat,

“Ok, ok…” She sighs heavily, and adds as a side-note, “You stubborn bastard.” Derek rolls his eyes again and runs his hands through his hair,

“Maybe I wouldn’t have to be such a stubborn bastard if you weren’t always such a stubborn bitch.” He replies mildly, the words tinged with almost fond irritation. Laura blinks at him, nonplussed for a second, before erupting into peals of laughter. She looks at Derek with a long-suffering wry expression that says without words that he is an idiot. He remembers the same expression from when they were teenagers, always getting on each other’s nerves. He returns her laughter with a brief chuckle of his own, which comes surprisingly easy and relaxed.

“Ok, grouch, get in the car.” She says a little breathlessly, and when he throws her a disapproving glower, she gives him a wink and tosses the keys at him, “I’ll even let you drive.” She adds as he quickly snatches them out of the air. She understands he’s not supposed to yet, but she also knows how badly he wants to get behind the wheel again.

“You think bribing me is going to work?” He smirks, even as he’s heading for the driver’s side.

“It worked when you were twelve. I don’t see how much has changed since then.” She snickers as he gets his door open and slides into the seat. He unlocks the other doors, but just as Laura reaches out to pull her handle, Derek locks the doors again and smirks. Laura bangs on the window with a frustrated growl,

“Open the door, Derek!” She hisses, and Derek laughs as he unlocks them once again. Laura climbs into the passenger seat and stares angrily at her brother, “See, you’re such a man-child. Thanks for making my point.”

“You’re welcome.” Derek replies, and pulls the car out of the parking spot, pain blooming in his chest as he twists around to back the car up. He’s too satisfied to be behind the wheel though to let it bother him.

They’re almost home when Laura clears her throat, and Derek instinctively knows to mentally prepare himself for another barrage of sisterly advice. She gives him a sidelong glance and sees that he’s expecting her to jump into something, so when she doesn’t speak Derek gives her a look of pointed suspense and says,

“Well? Get it out now so I don’t have to listen to it later.” She briefly gives him an amused smile but then turns to look out the window again, seeming a bit hesitant.

“Derek, you know I want you to be happy, right?” She finally says, point-blank, and it’s hard to break away from her serious stare. He looks away wordlessly when he has to turn into the drive, the gravel crunching loudly beneath the tires. There’s the house, waiting for them. Disdain seeps back into Derek’s body like a dry sponge suddenly dumped into water.

“I know that.” He says, and Laura nods slowly, chewing on her words,

“Well, just… _promise_ me you’ll only do things that make you happy, ok?” Derek laughs, but the sound is humorless,

“You want to spit-shake on that? Maybe pinkie-swear?”

“God, don’t be a dick!” She snaps as she wrenches off her seat belt. He pulls into the garage and cuts the engine. They sit in tense silence for too long,

“I’m being serious.” She finally says, “Is that really too much to ask for, Derek? For you to be happy?” Derek’s jaw is so tight, Laura thinks it might crack. He knows she’s talking about the wedding,

“I _love_ Sarah.” He finally replies, his tone cold and brutally resolute, “I’m getting married to her because I love her.” This time he turns to stare Laura hard in the eyes when he speaks. She challenges his gaze for a long moment, not buying it for a second.

“Fine.” She whispers curtly, “Do whatever the fuck you want.” And she’s out of the car before Derek has the chance to retort.

When Derek marches into the house and tosses the keys on the island in the kitchen, he’s surprised to find no one around. _Well, that’s a fuckin’ first…_ Derek thinks. With five people running around the Hale home, it’s very rare not to bump into someone at every turn. Derek doesn’t bother wondering where Laura’s gone off to; he feels like he’s seen enough of his sister for one day.

Derek goes out on the back porch and finds his mom and dad sitting in lawn chairs down in the grass, a large umbrella casting shade like an inverted halo around them,

“Hey.” Derek says a bit gruffly, “Where is everyone?” John laughs at this,

“What, we’re not enough for you?” He replies. The teasing note is clear in his voice, but the look Liz levels on her son has Derek second-guessing whether or not his mother is part of the joke.

“…It’s just so…quiet.” Derek replies a bit awkwardly. He doesn’t have it in him to expend the kind of emotional energy needed to buffer his mother’s cutting looks right now.

“If you’re looking for Sarah, she’s in the studio.” Liz says, and her voice is a bit accusing, “She seemed a little upset earlier.” She adds pointedly, and Derek gives her a strange look, as if to say, _And you think it’s my fault?_ Derek grits his teeth, _I guess I’m to blame for everything around here…_

John pats Liz’s hand twice, his look a bit stern. She trades a glance with him and seems a bit put off by her husbands’ disapproving stare. Derek doesn’t know what to make of it, other than that his parents are impossibly complicated. It makes Derek want to knock his head against a wall.

“Ok.” Derek says briskly, “I’m gonna go see what’s up.” And he stalks off, already knowing that if Sarah truly is upset, his bad mood isn’t going to make her feel any better. When he gets into the studio, he finds Sarah lying down in bed, but when she spots him she sits up abruptly, as if she’s been waiting for him,

“Derek.” She says, “You guys are back.” Derek kicks off his shoes and nods.

“Yeah, just went to get a change of scenery, you know. Fresh air.” He lowers himself down onto the bed next to Sarah, and closes his eyes when his head hits the pillow. It’d be so nice right about now if he could just take a nap, he thinks.

“A change of scenery, yeah.” Sarah repeats, and Derek opens his eyes again when he detects a slightly acidic note to her voice.

“Babe, what is it?” He asks, and he pushes himself up on one elbow. Sarah shakes her head slightly, a minute twitch to her lips,

“Nothing.” She says. And if that isn’t the oldest lie in the book, Derek doesn’t know what is. He pushes his own irritation away and tries hard to be comforting. He sits up gingerly, his healing wound still sore from rowing and now made worse by driving; he reaches out to take Sarah’s hand and brush her hair back from her face,

“It’s not nothing, Sarah. What’s wrong?” He murmurs, and leans forward to graze her temple with a kiss. Sarah leans into the affection, but she still feels upset. Upset over the thing with Stiles, upset with Derek for clearly not wanting to get a ‘change of scenery’ with her. She’s been with Derek long enough to know this whole thing will just end up in a fight though, and she’s reluctant to get into one.

“Really, hon, it’s nothing. Just feeling a bit tired…” She takes a shaky breath and has to try really hard not to tear up. She wants so badly to be comforted; after all, she’s just made one of the worst blunders of her life. But she knows deep down that Derek won’t be able to give her the comfort she really needs. He’s always too impatient, too distracted. And, sure enough, Derek gives her a long look and sighs in defeat,

“Ok. Fine. If you say it’s nothing, it’s nothing.” He says, and Sarah isn’t exactly surprised by such a response. She still feels offended, but she knows if she opens her mouth now, all hell will break loose. They’re both clearly irritated and worn-down, so when Sarah ignores him for the rest of the evening and turns in early, Derek can’t say he feels particularly bothered by it. In fact, as he too eventually collapses on the couch to sleep, his only thoughts are how to get Laura and his dad off his back about Cora. All the while, Sarah lies awake most of the night in the other room thinking reluctantly about a future that seems destined to fall far short of marital bliss.

 

The next day, Sarah tries her best to steer clear of Derek. She’s mad at him for being such an ass, yes, but she also doesn’t want the thing with Stiles to come up. She feels impossibly ashamed by it, and as she lets herself replay the scene from time to time, she becomes more and more sullen. It’s gotten to the point where even Derek knows something definitely must be up. She’s relatively short with everyone, and before long Liz’s chastising looks become too much to bear. Around mid-afternoon, Derek finally corners Sarah in the studio as she’s rooting around for nail polish to redo her toenails with. He stands in the bathroom doorway, looming uncertainly, his face grim. When Sarah spots him, she knows immediately what must be coming.

“Derek,” She beats him to it, “I already told you, _it’s nothing_.” Derek knows he won’t get anywhere if he’s as curt as he’d like to be, so he layers up on a softer side he knows will appeal to her. It’s a terrible tactic to abuse like he is, but Derek’s running out of cards to play.

“Sarah,” He says gently, and moves to lean against the counter, “Please tell me what’s going on.” His voice is quiet and tender. She stares at him long and hard; they’ve played this game a million times before over the past ten years. She knows when to call his bluff, but the thought of having an actual heart-to-heart after so long and the splinter of a chance that they might rekindle a love that had been so much more than this at one point makes Sarah want to leap at the chance to try to make things work.

“Yesterday was just frustrating…” She starts and tries to push the undercurrent of irritation away, “I didn’t get as much done as I would’ve liked with the wedding planner, and I didn’t have enough time for groceries.” Derek’s eyebrows furrow at this, the confusion clear across his face. _No time for groceries…?_ Derek finds this last remark odd: all they have nowadays is time. Time for weddings. Time for family dysfunction. Time for picking Derek’s brain and sabotaging his reservations regarding his dead sister. Time for everything he’d rather there be no time for at all. So, no time for groceries definitely doesn’t fly with him.

“Baby, what’s going on? Something else must have happened to make you so upset.” He says, his patience already wearing thin. Sarah turns her head to give him a long look for a second, and then the tears start to come,

“I just…I just…” She wipes the tears away and tries to regain her composure. Derek pulls her into his arms and strokes her hair, runs his fingers down her arm,

“What is it?” He asks softly,

“I just feel like we haven’t connected in a while,” She finally gives in, “It’s like you’re pulling away, Derek…” He leans away to meet her gaze, a look of shock flitting across his hard features for a second, followed by indignation. _For fuck’s sake, why is everything always my fault?_

“It’s just been hard being back here, babe. I need to adjust, is all—”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought too, but you’re _not_ adjusting, Derek…” She says, “And I want to help you, but you won’t let me.” She cries. Derek disentangles himself from her, his patience now gone in a puff of smoke. He runs a hand up over his face and lets it rest in his hair, frustrated,

“Christ.” He growls, “Everyone wants me to do this and do that when it suits them—Why the fuck can’t I do what I need to in my own damn time?” He demands, and Sarah’s look turns severe,

“Maybe because we’ve all been waiting ten goddamn years for you to do it, Derek.” She snaps, and he turns his glare on her,

“You know what, why don’t you tell me why you’re really angry, Sarah, because we’ve already been over this a million times.” He scowls,

“Ok.” She hisses, tears still staining her cheeks, “How about how you’re never there for me when I need you to be?”

“You mean yesterday? To meet the wedding planner—”

“Yeah, or any other time, Derek! I seriously can’t tell you how much of a self-absorbed asshole you’ve been—”

“Damn it, Sarah! You think I don’t know that already? You’ve reminded me plenty of times.” He barks, “It’s not easy dealing with Cora’s death, coming back from the service—”

“Those are _excuses!_ ” She yells, “Nothing but _excuses_ , Derek! Get over yourself!” And, yeah, Derek knows she’s probably right. To some extent, those reasons have turned into excuses over the years, but he’ll be damned if he’s about to let them go easily.

“And I wanted to spend time with you yesterday, Derek. I reached out to you, but you pushed me away, told me your ‘chest was hurting’.” She mimics the last words with a generous dose of contempt, and the sudden clarity of Sarah’s previously masked derision leaves Derek shocked. Shocked, but not necessarily hurt.

“You’re upset because I went out with Laura instead of going into town with you?” Derek asks incredulously. Sarah looks momentarily ashamed before nodding firmly,

“Yes.” She says, her voice steady, “Yes, I was a bit jealous. But I’m _upset_ because you lied to me in order to stay home—”

“I didn’t lie to you.” Derek interrupts angrily, and Sarah groans in exasperation,

“You might as well have!” She shouts, “And, fine, I get that you didn’t want to go into town with me. Ok. But you totally blew me off last night when you knew something was up! I _needed_ you yesterday and you weren’t around—”

“How the hell am I supposed to know you need me when you don’t communicate with me?” Derek snaps, and Sarah gives him a murderous glare,

“Maybe if you weren’t too busy running around with your head up your ass you’d notice when other people are down, Derek. You think you’re the only one who has shitty days? Well, you’re not.” Derek grits his teeth and doesn’t know what to say. She isn’t exactly wrong about him there, and he knows it’d be useless to try to deny it. He takes a deep breath and lets the silence diffuse the situation before finally replying,

“Ok, I’m sorry.” He tries to make it sound as sincere as possible, “What happened yesterday to make you so unhappy?” Sarah scoffs quietly. She knows he doesn’t mean it like he should, but she takes a deep breath and chooses to ignore it.

“I made a huge mistake,” She starts, and the tears come back to her eyes, makes her voice waver. Derek watches her carefully, his curiosity piqued,

“How?” He asks, and takes her hand in his once again. With tender caresses, he tries to dispel the remaining tension from their argument and attempts feebly to live up to the fiancé he feels she deserves. Sarah takes a deep shaky breath and meets Derek’s intent gaze for a moment,

“I, um…I ran into Stiles Stilinski at the grocery store,” She murmurs, and Derek sees guilt coloring her cheeks.

“And?” He prompts, making sure his voice is still gentle and caring. Sarah shudders in his arms and shakes her head slowly,

“God, I feel terrible!” She exclaims, and he wipes at her tears, silently encouraging her to go on, “…We talked for a while, and at the end I…I told him I was sorry to hear about his dad…” She presses her knuckles to her lips, her teeth leaving angry red imprints on the skin. She has to take a moment before she can continue, “But he didn’t know!” She sobs, “He didn’t know what I was talking about…He had no idea his father was dead, and I just…floored him with it.” Derek stares at her in astonishment, his mouth going dry. He studies her carefully, not knowing what to say, what to think,

“No way…” Is all that comes out of his mouth, and Sarah gives him an annoyed look,

“Yeah.” She grits, “Thanks for making me feel better.”

“Well, what happened after you told him?” Derek orders, his gentle façade slipping away little by little. Sarah gives him a strange look, a disappointed look,

“…I…left.” She says hesitantly, ashamed of her actions. The look Derek gives her makes the feeling ten times worse.

“You left?” He repeats in disbelief, and Sarah sniffles, her tears drying up and anger beginning to take its place,

“Look, I’m not proud of it, but, yeah…I just couldn’t believe he didn’t already know…” She presses, trying to make him see things from her perspective. From the look on Derek’s face, she can see it’s not working.

“You _blindsided_ the guy with his father’s death…and then you left him there? In the middle of a fucking grocery store?” Derek says incredulously, and Sarah snaps, feeling abandoned and guilty,

“Whose side are you on, Derek?” She cries, “I’m telling you this because I feel like shit about it! And that’s all you have to say?”

“We’re talking about telling someone their dad is _dead_ , Sarah. What if he... _kills_ himself or something? Obviously, they didn’t patch things up after their fight…” Derek explodes, “Who the hell knows where he is now? You don’t just leave someone alone after something like that.” Derek is pushing himself up off the counter and going into the bedroom to find his shoes before he fully knows what he’s doing. Sarah stares at him wide-eyed and disbelieving,

“Are you kidding me?” She yells, “What are you doing?” Derek doesn’t answer her as he gets his shoes on and heads for the door,

“Where are you _going?_ ” Sarah screams after him, getting up haphazardly to follow him to the door, “This is what I’m talking about, Derek!” She sobs, “You’d rather run off after some stranger than fix things with me!” Derek doesn’t turn around as he jogs up to the house to grab the keys for the car. His mom and dad are out on the deck getting the barbecue set up when Derek storms out of the studio, and their wide confused eyes follow him unblinkingly as he comes up. Even Laura is out on the deck now, and her gaze as she follows her brother’s form into the house is downright shocked. Derek doesn’t even spare them a glance as he disappears into the kitchen, grabs the keys, and heads for the front door.

As he pulls out of the driveway, he doesn’t know or really care what they do next in the wake of his unexpected departure. He’s not even one hundred percent sure what he’s doing, if he’s being honest, but he knows he has his sights set on the cabin across the lake. Something about Stiles bearing the news of his father’s death alone makes Derek feel impossibly helpless and vulnerable; it makes him want to do something, to take action. It’s as if he somehow feels responsible for the wellbeing of a guy he virtually knows nothing about, other than the tragedy he’s had to endure. And maybe that’s it. Maybe Derek feels compelled to seek Stiles out because he’ll be one broken man reaching out to another.

# ▲▼▲▼▲▼

A few hours after Stiles’ conversation with Scott, there’s a point where he begins to feel feverish, but not because of any physical malady or even psychosomatic exhaustion. It feels like magma oozing across his brain, dissolving his ability to compartmentalize, to push the crushing weight of his father’s death away. The enormous self-loathing and guilt left behind in its blazing path is all that remains for Stiles to pick at, and it leaves him feeling agitated and restless. It’s like he’s burning up, like his skin is melting off and his brain is scrambled, fried. He’s unable to think and yet his thoughts won’t leave him alone. It’s the worst feeling in the world.

In a fit of rage and desperation, Stiles strips frantically down to his boxers and practically throws himself into the lake.

It’s like all the white noise, all the constant buzz of his racing brain, is muted when the water closes over his head. It’s blessedly cool and still, and the water caresses his skin comfortingly, as if it understands. He opens his eyes under the water and sees the light shimmer on the surface above him, its rays piercing the lake’s depths in a series of mysterious flickering tendrils that never quite reach the bottom. It’s quiet down here, wonderfully quiet and cold.

When Stiles surfaces, he takes a deep breath, the air feeling hot in his lungs. He’s treading water, but his limbs feel so heavy, so unbearably heavy…

Stiles sucks in another big breath and submerges himself with the intention of hanging out underwater for a little while, where it’s nice and silent, but when his lungs begin to burn he doesn’t particularly feel the desire to surface quite yet. For now, he stays suspended in a watery embrace where he doesn’t have to think, where the only emotions he feels are calm and relief. _Relief…_ It's unexpected, and he never in a million years thought he’d feel that again. But here, where the world doesn’t seem to exist any longer beyond the surface of the lake, he feels relief, and there’s nothing more he wants than to feel that way forever.

There’s an undeniable appeal to the oblivion pressing its way into his senses, an alluring attraction to handing over the control to something that’s slowly blacking out all the pain and the hurt and the serrated regret. Stiles thinks how can there be something wrong with giving in to something like this if it means he gets to let go of those destructive emotions and never feel them again? The kind of solace this void presents is a seduction he isn’t sure he can refuse. He doesn’t think he even wants to refuse it…  
Stiles closes his eyes and lets the water cradle his body. He lets it take away the pain from his mind, and in its place is a promise of endless relief…

 

And then everything changes. Stiles is only vaguely aware of something pulling at him, something hard and tight around his chest, yanking him up. _What the hell…_ Then he’s surfacing and air is forced into his tight lungs like helium in a shriveled balloon. It hurts. He sees black spots dancing in front of his watery vision, and the way he feels so disoriented makes him want to barf. The world is spinning, and he squeezes his eyes shut to try to make it stop.

It’s only when he feels the hard boards of the dock digging into his bare back that he becomes aware he’s not alone. He doesn’t remember swimming willingly to the surface, and he sure as hell doesn’t remember dragging himself up onto the dock. Stiles pushes his wet hair out of his eyes and continues to suck in ragged lungfuls of air as he looks around angrily at whoever disturbed him.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Stiles yells hoarsely even before his eyes land on the sprawled figure of his rescuer. The man jolts to his elbows and glares in offended confusion at Stiles,

“What the fuck are _you_ doing?” Derek demands breathlessly, his chest heaving from an overdose of adrenaline. Stiles blinks at him, utterly nonplussed, and realizes that his breath has been taken away all over again. _What is_ Derek _fucking_ Hale _doing here?_ Stiles thinks and his heart seems to be crammed into his throat. Stiles doesn’t know what to think, but he does know that even though the walking talking wet dream from his high school years is right in front of him, he’s pissed and embarrassed about being pulled out of the lake like a fucking idiot.

“I was swimming.” Stiles snaps angrily, and Derek watches Stiles suspiciously, looking skeptical,

“Swimming involves _moving_.” He retorts just as brusquely, unsure what to make of Stiles’ rather ungrateful reaction. Swimming was definitely _not_ what Stiles had been doing when Derek had mustered up enough courage to wander around the property to see if the other man was around. When he had spotted the abandoned books and clothes on the dock he had gone down to investigate, but the suspended body in the lake was the last thing he had expected to see.

Without thinking or hesitating, Derek had dove right in to pull Stiles up, and, now, as he sits back on the dock with an angry Stiles glaring dangerously at him, he thinks fleetingly that maybe he should’ve left Stiles there.

“I was fine.” Stiles growls, but when he attempts to stand he gets unbearably dizzy. He tries to sit down again as gracefully as possible, but falls clumsily back on his ass anyway. Derek scrutinizes him closely, and Stiles curses to himself when he feels his cheeks flush under the other man’s intense stare,

“Were you trying to kill yourself?” Derek asks abruptly and seriously. Stiles’ gaze snaps up to meet Derek’s in surprise, but then he lets out a short bark of laughter, feeling a little uneasy,

“Wow. You definitely don’t hedge around the big questions, do you?” He replies dryly, and Derek pulls himself up into a sitting position. Stiles notices the pained grimace and the way Derek unconsciously digs his fingers into his chest.

“I don’t bother with hedging.” Derek says, “It’s a waste of time.” And Stiles believes it with his apparent no-nonsense kind of attitude. Stiles wants really badly to be a smartass and give Derek lip, but he has to admire the guy for being so refreshingly blunt, even if he also finds it impossibly annoying right now.

Stiles takes a deep breath and looks out over the lake, his brow furrowed. He doesn’t want to answer Derek’s question because he isn’t completely sure taking his life hadn’t been the objective. Derek is about to reiterate when Stiles opens his mouth to speak,

“No. I wasn’t going to.” He gives Derek a long analyzing look before choosing to continue honestly, “I wasn’t going to _consciously_ attempt suicide.” He takes another deep breath, still feeling like he can’t get enough oxygen. He has to break Derek’s stare when he begins again, more slowly this time, “I just wanted to feel…nothing. When I was down there…” His words come haltingly now, and he’s a bit ashamed to be admitting them out loud, “…I just felt…free, y’know.” He swallows thickly, “It wasn’t about…dying. It was about _escaping_. I finally felt like I could escape…” He stares at the boards of the dock for a long moment and picks at the slivers of wood between his feet. 

When he dares to look at Derek again, he sees something he never thought possible in another human being: pure empathy. It scares him to see that in Derek’s eyes, because he would never in a million years wish the kind of pain he’s experienced on anyone else in the whole world, and yet this virtual stranger seems to understand what it means to want to escape. And it’s true. As Stiles lets the words come tumbling out into the open air, Derek thinks about how he knows exactly how it feels to want to escape. He had thought he'd finally achieved it as his body crumpled to the dry sandy earth not even a year ago...

“That’s a hard feeling to shake.” Derek says quietly, and Stiles nods falteringly,

“Yeah, I didn’t want to let it go.” He admits. And he doesn’t know why he keeps letting these truths come falling out of his mouth, unfiltered and naked. Anyone else would probably think he needed to be committed.

“And now?” Derek asks. Stiles lets the deep soft rumble of his voice roll down his skin, giving him goose bumps. He licks his lips and has to focus his concentration back on the words,

“…I don’t know.” The words come out on a heavy, frustrated sigh, “…I mean, I don’t want to die. I’m not going to kill myself.” He adds quickly, decisively, and it’s the truth. Like he said earlier, it hadn’t been about dying. “I just want to catch a break, y’know?”

Stiles hasn’t stopped to wonder if Derek even knows what he’s talking about in the slightest, like whether or not he knows that Stiles was kicked out or that his father has died… But then he realizes that, whatever Derek knows, it doesn’t really matter because the way he looks at Stiles doesn’t have any of the usual pity or disgust or detached sympathy he’s used to seeing… What Derek is offering him in one look alone touches the hurt and pain in a way no one else has been able to before. In fact, Stiles thinks no one has been able to feel it the way he thinks Derek might, and it makes him wonder what kind of demons Derek is keeping locked up, just like him.

“Well I’m glad you didn’t catch it at the bottom of the lake.” Derek says after a long while, and Stiles feels ashamed about giving in so easily, about thinking that holding his breath long enough would wipe the pain away for good.

“Thanks to you…” He says quietly, and it’s the closest he's going to get to a proper thank-you. He still feels embarrassed that Derek Hale, of all people, was the one to save his sorry ass. Stiles gets to his feet and holds his hand out to help the other man up. Derek takes it and grits his teeth as he stands. The squelch of Derek’s shoes and the way his wet shirt sticks to his skin makes Stiles feel both sorry and not sorry that Derek jumped in after him,

“Shit…your clothes…” Stiles says a little awkwardly, and Derek looks down at himself, “I’m sorry, man, really…” Stiles adds. Derek shrugs and begins to pull at his T-shirt and toe off his shoes,

“They’ll dry.” His voice is muffled as he pulls his shirt over his head, and Stiles is glad Derek can’t see his expression as his eyes rake over the man’s naked torso. _Holy shit…_ Stiles thinks wryly, _The universe really does have a fucked up sense of humor…_

If Stiles thought Derek was hot in high school, the way Derek looks now should be downright outlawed. Stiles tries not to watch the way Derek’s muscles ripple as he pulls the shirt off or the way drops of water glisten as they roll down the hard terrain of his smooth chest…

“I, um…I’m gonna go see if I have an extra shirt…” Stiles mutters as Derek lays his wet shirt out in the sun and begins to unbutton his jeans, “…and pants…” Stiles adds hurriedly and makes a hasty beeline for the house. He doesn’t think he has anything that’ll fit Derek very well, but when he gets to the bedroom he changes quickly and then locates a pair of gym shorts and the biggest T-shirt he owns. He comes out of the bedroom again and stares at the fridge critically: now would be a damn good time for a beer. But seeing as he has none, he grabs two bottles of water and heads out again to make sure the chiseled Adonis puts clothes back on.

Derek is sitting in just his boxer-briefs when Stiles walks down to the dock and hands him the shorts and shirt.

“Thanks.” He says as he stands and pulls the shorts up. They fit ok, to Stiles’ surprise. Derek yanks the shirt on, but not before Stiles can see a livid, fresh scar right under his left pec. Stiles doesn’t want to be unduly nosy, so he pretends like he hasn’t seen it when Derek finishes pulling the shirt down. He gives Stiles a grateful smile when the younger man holds out one of the bottles of water.

“Do you want to sit up on the deck while your clothes dry?” Stiles asks, looking up at the sky to gauge the sun. There probably isn’t quite enough daylight left now to do the trick, but he isn’t exactly against the idea of getting Derek to hang out a bit longer. Derek watches Stiles closely for a minute,

“Yeah, sounds good.” He replies, and the way Stiles grins sends a shiver dancing up his heated skin. Stiles leads the way up to the porch, but when he looks back he sees Derek has that look on his face again, like he’s in pain.

“Are you ok?” Stiles stops, and Derek meets his gaze, trying hard to keep the burning ache erupting in his chest from showing up on his face. Rowing had been a very bad idea and driving had been a moderately bad idea, but diving into the lake to rescue the unintentionally-suicidal Stiles had been an epically terrible idea as far as his wound is concerned. Derek hasn’t felt it hurt like this since the first month or so of recovery; every time he sucks in a breath it feels like his lung is being torn in two.

“I just need to sit down…” Derek winces, and the look of alarm on Stiles face is almost comical. Stiles ushers Derek onto the porch and gives him the armchair, eager to help but not sure how.

“I’ll be right back, I have some ibuprofen…” Stiles disappears into the house before he even has the sentence completed, leaving Derek in pain but amused.

When Stiles grabs the ibuprofen he stops by the freezer to see if there are more ice cubes, but there aren’t any. The freezer is empty. Ever resourceful, Stiles hesitates only a moment before rooting around one of the drawers for a knife to hack at the built up ice with. He knocks off a pretty good-sized chunk and stuffs it into a plastic bag, grabs another kitchen towel, and heads back outside,

“Here’s some ice. And ibuprofen.” Stiles doesn’t know what to hand Derek first, and is relieved when Derek grabs the bag of ice, wraps it in the kitchen towel, and slides it up under his shirt. Stiles shakes out two ibuprofen and hands them to Derek when he’s ready. Derek laughs when he sees how alarmed Stiles looks,

“Thanks, mom.” He jokes, and Stiles grins,

“If you can be a smartass, I guess you’re ok.” He laughs, a bit more at ease now, and he takes a seat in the rickety foldout chair next to Derek.

“So,” Stiles begins, and Derek watches him absently ruffle his wet hair with one fidgety hand, “were you trying out for a Butch Cassidy remake or something?” Stiles motions tentatively to his chest, and Derek chuckles. His crooked grin makes him look younger, not to mention ridiculously hot. Stiles thinks smiling looks good on Derek, but something tells him he doesn’t do a whole lot of it.

“Clearly I didn’t get the part,” Derek plays along smoothly, “I think I might’ve scared them off with my brilliant authenticity.” Stiles laughs and props his bare feet up on the railing in front of him, relaxed and smiling. Derek revels in the bizarre and surprising way Stiles’ laughter makes him feel kind of lightheaded, like he’s somehow a million miles high.

“No…” Derek clears his throat, his pleased grin still lingering on his lips, “I was in the Army actually.” He tells Stiles, and Stiles looks over to give him a fascinated glance,

“That must’ve been…intense.” Stiles says, and Derek finds himself somewhat surprised by the response. It’s definitely not the typical reaction he gets from people when he tells them he’s been in the Army. Normally he gets the usual recited ‘thank-you for your service’ line and a look of uncomprehending sympathy. “I hope it’s not too bad?” Stiles adds, the concern doubling as a question. He tilts his chin towards the wound, and Derek gives him a small shrug,

“Not as bad as it could be.” He replies, and adjusts the melting bag of ice. Stiles tries not to stare at the bare strip of skin exposed at the waistband of Derek’s shorts.

“Looks like I’m not the only one who could benefit from some ice actually.” Derek adds after a while and Stiles looks at him in confusion for a moment,

“Oh!” Stiles points to his black eye, and pulls a face, “Yeah…It’s better now.” He says in an effort to play it down. He doesn’t actually know if it’s any better, and from the look Derek is giving him he can guess it probably isn’t. Derek grabs the bottle of ibuprofen and shakes some out,

“…Want to talk about it?” Derek asks softly as he holds the pills out for Stiles to take. Stiles’ mouth goes dry as he stares at Derek: he has to try desperately to push the burgeoning spike of desire away at the same time as he fights back nervous dread. He takes the ibuprofen and washes it down with some water to try and buy some time. He’s not sure if he wants to talk about it.

“Look, I don’t want you to feel like you’re obligated to stick around.” Stiles deflects, “…Besides, you don’t want me to unload all my shit on you…” Stiles feels like he could easily be on the verge of rambling so he clamps his mouth shut. Derek sits up in his chair and pierces him with a look that has Stiles biting the inside of his lip until he tastes the warm tang of coppery blood,

“It’s not a problem.” Derek says, his voice steady and sure, “If you want to tell me, I’m all ears.” Stiles swallows back his words uncertainly at first,

“Ok.” He finally relents. He knows that if it had been _anyone else_ , he wouldn’t have wanted to spend even a minute talking about yesterday’s events, let alone the events of ten years past. But something about Derek makes Stiles want to open up, makes him want to share even his most painful moments. He doesn’t know why, though, and that’s the part that frightens him.

Stiles sits back in his chair and looks out over the lake, unable to keep Derek’s intent gaze,

“You’ve probably heard about what happened…” Stiles murmurs, and guesses finding out what Derek already knows is as good a place to start as any,

“I haven’t heard it from you.” Derek replies evenly, and it’s the most considerate thing anyone has ever said to him. Stiles spares him a silently thankful glance before retreating to the safety of the lake and the houses beyond.

“This,” Stiles points to his eye, “my brother gave me.” He chuckles and drops his hand back into his lap, “I kind of deserved it though. I thought my brother didn’t talk to me for ten years because I’m gay. Turns out it’s because I never bothered to stop and ask him what he thought about me being gay. Which, I guess it turns out he doesn’t really care which team I play for.” Stiles scoffs, “So, basically, we spent a decade of our lives hating each other for all the wrong reasons, for reasons that could’ve probably been straightened out with one phone call…” Stiles dares to glance over at Derek and finds the other man watching him attentively. The look he has on his face helps steady Stiles’ rapidly beating heart,

“…So, yeah, I split his lip, he gave me a black eye, we worked things out.” Stiles blows out a long breath and slumps down in his chair, “My mom’s another story though… I can’t really figure her out…” Stiles swallows back his fear, “…and I don’t think I’m ready to yet.” He shrugs. Derek watches Stiles’ fingers fiddle absently with a couple loose threads in the chair’s cushion.

“And your father? You just found out the other day that he passed away…” Derek says quietly, and those fingers immediately stop what they’re doing. Stiles doesn’t look at him, but Derek can see the other man’s throat working and the way his profile goes rigid is almost painful to watch,

“When I think of my dad, I feel lost.” Stiles finally whispers, “Sometimes I still feel angry. But most of the time I think about how he must be out there doing something right now…mowing the lawn, fishing with his buddies, driving around town.” Stiles hates the tears that spring to his eyes, “And then I realize…he’s nowhere. That he can’t physically be doing any of those things anymore because he’s dead.” Stiles has to take a moment to steady his voice, “And I think about how I’ll never get to see him again.” Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles can see Derek lean forward in his seat, his hands clasped between his knees,

“I know what that feels like.” Derek whispers, and Stiles turns to look at him. In the growing dusk, Stiles sees the shadows play across Derek’s features, like the ghosts Stiles hears left unmentioned in Derek’s words,

“Cora?” Stiles asks, and the word is barely audible. Derek breaks Stiles’ stare and looks off into the distance. The way his sister’s name comes off Stiles’ tongue is like a hopeful prayer instead of an accusation, and Derek feels a slight weight lift off his shoulders. He’s never wanted to talk about Cora to anyone before, and that hasn’t exactly changed. But with Stiles he finds that perhaps he can begin to think about it. For now, he feels like he can offer up a little bit of himself if it means it will help Stiles heal,

“Yeah.” He looks up to meet Stiles’ eyes, and the expressions on their faces are like mirror images, “I think about how I can’t see her anymore all the time...” He admits, and it’s strange letting go of those words, hearing them linger in the still night air. He gives Stiles a small reassuring smile,

“But I’d like to think someday I’ll be able to see her again.” He adds before he can change his mind. Stiles watches him carefully,

“…You really believe that kind of thing?” He asks hesitantly, and Derek gives him a careful nod,

“It’s more like…I _need_ to believe it.” Derek supplies, and he’s never really given much thought to it himself, but he knows that, if there is an afterlife, he has to be able to tell Cora he loves her one last time. Stiles seems to be contemplating this, and Derek watches as his expression slowly softens,

“All I want now that my dad’s dead is to tell him I’m sorry.” Stiles finally says, “I think I’d like to imagine someday I’ll get a chance to do that.” Derek gives him a sympathetic look. He understands that desire all too well.

“Maybe we’ll both be able to do that someday, Stiles.” He murmurs, and Stiles watches Derek carefully. He wants to ask why Derek would want to apologize to Cora, but the way Derek meets his gaze so timorously, so vulnerably, makes him decide to wait.

“You know, it’s funny.” Stiles sighs heavily after a while, “Before I found out my dad was dead, I didn’t want a damn thing to do with him. I was so mad at him, I was sure if I ever saw him again I’d fly off the fuckin’ handle.” Stiles meets Derek’s eyes when he adds, “But now…It’s kind of like that saying ‘you don’t know what you have until it’s gone’ or whatever the hell.” Stiles hesitates, his words choked up. Derek watches as Stiles fiddles with a hangnail restlessly and then his eyes travel up when he sees the other man’s tongue flick out to wet his lips,

“Now that I can’t, all I want to do is tell him I was such an ass for staying away for so long.” Stiles continues, “It doesn’t even matter if he’d listen to a damn word I said or not…I just want to be able to tell him I’m sorry. I’m _not_ sorry for who I am… but I am sorry for being a jerk. And I’m definitely sorry he found me having sex on the living room couch.” Stiles laughs a little nervously, “I mean, I’d probably be scarred for life too…” Derek can’t help but let out a snort of laughter and Stiles breathes a bit easier hearing Derek’s laugh.

“You guys were on the couch?” Derek asks a bit incredulously, and Stiles wiggles his eyebrows at him suggestively,

“We were on the couch.” Stiles confirms, his tone light with amusement but still weighted by an undeniable stitch of embarrassment. He has to try hard to push the mental image of his parents’ horrified faces away. Derek pulls in air through his teeth, looking physically pained,

“That’s every kid’s worst nightmare.”

“What, couches?” Stiles asks somewhat cheekily, and Derek chuckles,

“No, having your parents walk in on you having _sex_.” Stiles nods adamantly and really wishes he didn’t have such great first-hand experience.

“Must’ve been rough having your parents find out that way…” Derek says after a moment of silence. As surprisingly easy as it is to talk about these things, Derek’s still cautious about testing out the waters. He doesn’t know what topics Stiles will be receptive to or not. Stiles gives him a look that’s still open, but something has begun clouding it over,

“…It was.” Stiles replies, his voice low, “Still is.” He wrings his hands a few times and then wipes his clammy palms on his jeans,

“Sometimes…I wonder if it would’ve been any different if I had come out to them _normally_ , y’know.” He chuckles a little mirthlessly at this, his look grave, “They really had no idea I was gay. I mean, _I_ wasn’t even really sure I was gay… But sometimes I wonder if I’d gotten the chance to sit them down and talk them through it…maybe none of this would’ve happened.” He says honestly, and when he looks over at Derek he’s surprised to find that it’s gotten dark: he can hardly make out Derek’s expression anymore. In a way it’s comforting, makes him feel safe, but at the same time he wants to be able to see Derek’s face, to see the other man’s eyes studying him so keenly like no one else has,

“Do you really think it would’ve been any different?” Derek asks, and Stiles hums,

“I bet it definitely wouldn’t have been so explosive.” He says in retrospective amusement, “But, in the long run? Yes and no. My dad was the kind of guy who was…tolerant. So long as you didn’t shove it in his face. He was quick to get angry, had a temper a mile long, and he always stuck to his convictions.” Stiles feels the aching pain of betrayal begin to crawl it’s way back in, “…If my mom holds anything against me it’s probably because she thinks I’m going to Hell.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out, willing the lingering sadness to go with it,

“I think they were of the mentality that being gay was fine, so long as their own son wasn’t, know what I mean? And then to find me with Jake like they did…” Stiles blinks away the frustrated tears and swallows back the sharp taste of disgusted guilt. Derek catches onto the name of the other boy Stiles must have been with and a pang of unexpected jealousy zings through him. Out of nowhere, the image of Stiles on his knees in the boys’ locker room surfaces in Derek’s memory and he has to struggle to banish it. Now is definitely not the time for that, and shame colors his cheeks. He’s about to open his mouth to speak, to say anything that will dispel the train of thought his brain seems set on exploring, but suddenly the chime of a cell phone is going off.

Stiles jumps up from his seat in alarm,

“Oh shit—That must be Scott!” He murmurs and bounds down off the porch to jog to the dock to retrieve his phone. Derek watches him, his eyes following the long limbs and the shock of tussled hair until the growing darkness turns him into nothing more than a blur. He sits back in the armchair and lets out a long breath. He feels giddy with some strange kind of energy, and he quickly recognizes it for what it is: attraction. He also feels like he’s playing with fire, and because of that, he’s quick to try to stifle the magnetism he feels toward Stiles. There are so many reasons why this unexpected fascination with Stiles could only end in disaster: not the least of which is Derek’s feeling of inadequacy. Stiles deserves much more than Derek would ever be able to give him. If he’s being honest with himself, as he should, Derek figures he isn’t really in any position to be giving _anyone_ anything. Not Sarah, not his mother, not himself, and now least of all Stiles.

“…No, man, I’m good.” He can hear Stiles’ voice travel to him from the yard, “Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner.” Stiles is making his way back up to the porch, and Derek catches the way Stiles’ eyes fall on him carefully. He wonders if Stiles wants to tell Scott about him.

Whatever Stiles says, he doesn’t mention that Derek Hale is sitting on his porch. A part of him wants to keep it a secret. Not to mention, he doesn’t really know how to fully process the afternoon’s events. Pouring his heart out to Derek certainly hadn’t been on the agenda, that’s for damn sure.

“…I’ll meet up with you tomorrow, Scott.” Derek watches as Stiles smiles at something Scott says, and the way Stiles’ lips curl around the grin makes Derek want to make sure it stays there forever.

Derek runs his tongue over his teeth and averts his eyes. Something about Stiles makes him feel like he’s about to make a wonderfully terrible mistake. Suddenly he feels self-conscious, as if he’s aware that the fine line he’s treading here can’t possibly be part of reality. He needs to leave. As Stiles is getting off the phone, Derek rises to his feet and sets the melted bag of ice on the card table by his side.

“…I need to go.” Derek says gently when Stiles hangs up. He tries to sound casual, and Stiles seems to take it in stride. At the very least, he doesn’t make it obvious if he finds Derek’s behavior as odd as Derek fears it comes across.

“Yeah,” Stiles nods, “I didn’t realize how late it’s gotten…” They stand a bit awkwardly on the back porch for a minute. Then it’s as if Stiles snaps into motion and he’s leaning around the door and switching on a light inside the house so Derek can see where he’s going. Derek thanks him and heads for the porch steps so he can get to the driveway. Stiles follows him to the edge and leans on the railing; Derek can’t make out his expression as the house lights shine too brightly behind him,

“Hey…uh, thanks for listening.” Stiles says after a while, and it’s clear he’s a bit embarrassed. Despite Derek’s sudden and inexplicable desire to put space between them, as if he’s over stayed his welcome, he still feels that keen sense of accountability for Stiles. It’s a responsibility he can’t explain, but it makes him want to do everything in his power to make Stiles’ world a better place, even if what he’s sure he has to offer isn’t much.

“Don’t mention it.” Derek says, and he can see Stiles visibly relax, “If you need someone to talk to, just let me know. Anytime.” And before he can lose the courage to do so, he steps forward toward the railing and looks up at Stiles, “…Your phone,” He says hesitantly, “could I see it?” Stiles gives him a strange look for a moment, and Derek wants to smack himself in the forehead for sounding so socially inept. Derek is grateful it’s dark so Stiles can’t see how flustered he must look. He realizes that he must sound like a complete creep, but just as he’s about to tell Stiles to forget about it, Stiles is stepping away to grab up his phone. He comes back and drops it into Derek’s hand,

“Been a while since I’ve gotten anyone’s number.” Stiles says teasingly and winks, trying, unsuccessfully, to ease the strange tension still thick in the air. Derek knows Stiles doesn’t mean it as anything more than a joke, but something about it still makes Derek feel dizzy with expectation.

From the white glare of his phone, Stiles can see Derek smile, and he’s relieved the other man didn’t read into his remark. Sometimes Stiles feels like he really has a knack for sticking his foot in his mouth, and giving Derek the wrong impression is definitely not what he wants to do. Well, if he’s honest with himself, it _is_ what he wants to do. But he instinctively knows Derek is off limits. For one, he’s _straight_ and _engaged_ , and, secondly, Stiles promised himself he would never ever get wrapped up in the messy confines of lust and desire. He doesn’t trust himself with such emotions, and he sure as hell doesn’t trust anyone else with them either.

Derek programs his number into Stiles’ phone and hands it back to the other man, feeling strangely accomplished.

“Thanks.” Stiles says as casually as he can, and Derek gives him a small grin,

“Like I said, give me a call anytime.” Derek replies evenly and heads for the car so he doesn’t stand there like a bumbling idiot longer than he feels he already has. Stiles watches him go, rooted to the spot right on the porch. He doesn’t know how to make sense of the whole evening, but he definitely knows if Derek has accomplished one thing, he has thoroughly distracted Stiles from the family dysfunction that now sits forgotten at the back of his brain, finally quiet and docile for the time being.

As Stiles watches Derek pull out of the driveway, he doesn’t even feel a little bit ashamed by how badly he hopes to see the other man again. He just wishes he wasn’t so stupidly attracted to Derek Hale. Like a moth drawn to a flame, Stiles knows it can only end one way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Chapters may be posted a bit slower here on out, just because of life and because I want to be sure I get the timeline/continuity/plot right. Rest assured, lots is in store though. Thanks for all your support!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek finally takes the time to do some deep thinking about the possibility of change. In doing so, he realizes what an ass he's been to those around him, especially Sarah. He doesn't yet know how much change he's ready to instigate, but he does know that he needs to start mending the hurt between them.
> 
> Stiles sees the McCalls for the first time after receiving the news about his father, and it proves harder than he thought to manage the grief. Allison comes to the rescue and the two have some time to bond and talk about some of the pain Stiles is going through.
> 
> Stiles might have also inadvertently admitted to Derek's visit the other day, which proves very amusing to Allison...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, guys, but here's the next chapter! I hope to have the next one out much sooner!  
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> As always, many thanks to the wonderful Werhooligan for her trusty feedback and comic relief ;)
> 
> WARNINGS: Not a whole lot for this chapter. Mostly just Stiles geeking out over becoming an uncle to Scott and Allison's baby! So, warning, cuteness shall ensue....

Derek’s visit with Stiles has left him feeling…unraveled. In a scary good way, a frighteningly promising way. He feels like all the hurt and pain and frustration from the past ten years have left him wound so tight, like a knotted ball of yarn spinning tighter the longer it goes untouched. And, yet, without even trying, it’s like Stiles has been able to find the end of that yarn and pull it loose. The promise of a kindred soul has Derek’s mind caught up in a whirlwind of possibility, as if some mysterious process has been set into motion, a process to disentangle Derek from the all-too-familiar clutches of his aching grief.

It makes Derek think he might be ready to start healing the wounds left neglected for far too long, and it’s the most terrifying thought he’s ever had.  
He figures it may be because he wants nothing more than for Stiles to heal too, so why shouldn’t he? After all, what good is he to Stiles broken? If Stiles deserves to be happy, maybe he does too.

When he gets back to the studio after seeing Stiles, the little house is dark. Sarah has gone to bed. Derek lies on the rock-hard, too-small couch for hours before realizing he isn’t going to have the luxury of sleep. It's an electric buzz swimming through his blood that keeps him awake, the annoyingly persistent and complicated prospect of attraction zinging through the back of his brain. But, more than that, is the way Stiles makes him feel frighteningly _alive_ for the first time since…as long as he could remember. The desire to help Stiles overcome the death of his father makes Derek realize he has to do the same with Cora, as scary as that may be. Derek doesn’t know what that really means yet, can’t fully wrap his head around what that will take, but he knows that he has to start somewhere. These thoughts had started worming their way into his brain while on Stiles’ back porch, and all they had been at the time were abstract implications and shadows of opportunity, but as the night wears on they begin to take undeniable shape.

Something else also clicks for Derek, as the prospect of change looms dauntingly in his mind, and it’s as if his stubborn tunnel vision has suddenly given way to a broad horizon of overwhelming possibility on all fronts. With it, Derek sees his life in brutal, unforgiving detail: He’s been such an asshole these past few years, especially to Sarah. The bedroom where she’s asleep is dark, has been for hours, but slowly Derek begins to realize that morning is starting to seep through the blinds, casting the room in a silvery gray light. Some time during the night he had moved into the bedroom and has been sitting in the recliner against the wall for longer than he cares to scrutinize, kept awake by a battlefield of jumbled emotions. He’s sick and tired of the hard little couch, and, even though the recliner isn’t much better, he wonders if he’ll come up with all the right answers to fix things if he stares at Sarah’s peacefully sleeping form long enough. Surprisingly, he feels unnaturally calm about the previous day’s explosive events, like an outsider looking in on someone else’s mess. It’s like being centered in the eye of a storm and knowing that chaos is only one step away in either direction.

There is one thing Derek knows for sure: he’s been such a selfish bastard, just like Sarah said. Sure, he’s been through hell and back over the years, but Derek realizes that doesn’t excuse his behavior. He gets he’s not perfect, and she’s not perfect, but he knows he has it in him to treat her better than this. He’s still not sure about the wedding, about the future, but he knows at the very least she deserves a friend in him. They seem to have lost even that along the way.

Derek gets up out of the recliner and approaches the bed, and when he reaches out to run his fingers over the smooth skin of Sarah’s shoulder, her eyes flutter open, blurry with sleep. When she realizes who it is standing over her, she immediately looks guarded. But as he looks closer, there’s a glimmer of something else Derek can see in her eyes. Something like hopeful anticipation?

“Sarah…” Derek wets his lips and sits down on the edge of the bed, his warm hand still lingering on her arm. He doesn’t really know what to say, and he realizes ruefully that that seems to be the story of his life: He has too many words to say to everyone, but never knows how to say them. Suddenly, something comes to mind and he lets a small smile flit across his lips. Maybe instead of telling her how he feels, he can _show_ her.

“Come with me.” He says softly, and the slightly hurt look she has on her face is immediately replaced with confusion. “ _Please?_ ” He adds, getting up off the bed to find shoes. She gets up and runs a hand through her hair, her brows furrowed together.

“Derek, what are we doing?” She murmurs as she pulls on pants. Derek grabs up the keys to the Passat and gives her a little reassuring grin,

“You’ll see.” He replies, “Trust me?” She stares at him for a long moment, her expression tired and a bit doubtful.

“Ok.” She relents, and grabs up a sweater to pull over her tank top. She follows him out of the studio and into the early morning light, but still doesn’t know what to make of Derek’s unexpected and mysterious plans. The fight from the other night still stings, like a paper cut irritated by the constant pull of skin. She wants to be angry with Derek, she really does, but she finds she can’t muster up enough of any emotion to keep the blaze going.

She doesn’t even put up a fight when Derek gets into the driver’s seat and puts the keys in the ignition. They’re both silent as Derek drives into town, and Sarah stares out her window, feeling scrubbed raw, not knowing what emotion to lead with in such a strange situation. Derek looks over at her every now and then, wondering what she’s thinking and hoping his gesture will help erase the slight frown still lingering on her features.

 

Blue Moon Bakery and Café has been around for a very long time, and most residents would agree Beacon Hills wouldn’t be the same without it. But, to Sarah and Derek, the quaint café holds different sentimental value. When Derek pulls into the parking lot and cuts the engine Sarah can’t help the surprised smile that plays across her lips. Derek settles back in his seat and glances at her, his expression hopeful. She returns his look, her lip caught between her teeth,

“Your plan is to win me over with doughnuts?” She finally says, deadpan. And Derek can’t keep the burst of laughter away; he can tell by her tone alone that he’s won half the battle already. She still looks tentative, but Derek can read her smile; he’s had over ten years of practice, after all. She may still be upset with him, but they’re on the same page: willing to make amends.

“Is the plan working?” Derek asks, and Sarah rolls her eyes playfully,

“I haven’t gotten my doughnut yet.” She counters, just as an employee is walking up to the front door to flip the “closed” sign over.

“Well, we’re about to fix that.” Derek says as he opens his door and gets out. When he can’t see her, Sarah shakes her head slightly in amazement: ninety-nine percent of the time, Derek is emotionally stunted and completely clueless, but it’s at times like these that has Sarah remembering all the other reasons he’s so great, all the reasons why they’re still together.

Derek comes around and opens the door for her, but as she stands up he leans forward into her space, trapping her there. His smile is hesitant as he looks at her: they’re still not at a place where he can justify kissing her yet. That bubble of uncertainty that lingers after a fight is still looming over their heads; it leaves them unsure where battle lines still exist and where others no longer matter. He hopes to change that though, to take the first steps in making things better.

“Do you remember this place?” He asks her softly and ventures to tuck her hair back behind her ear. She looks at him with amused disbelief,

“Do _I_ remember this place? Of course, I do. I’m surprised _you_ remember this place.” He pretends to look shocked and hurt,

“Well, I have to admit it was kind of hard to remember this place was where we had our _first_ date. Not a very memorable event, I know.” He says sarcastically, and Sarah shoves him playfully so she can step out from between the wedge of the car and the door,

“It’s also where we broke up for the first time. Do you remember that?” She replies, the amused spark still evident in the upturned crook of her lips. Derek grimaces in recollection and gives her a sheepish grin.

“I prefer to be a glass-half-full kind of guy.” He counters and she slips her arm through his so he’ll know she’s not being serious about bringing up the past. It had always been easy for them to bounce back after fights, and Derek realizes that the tendency may cut both ways: it can leave a hell of a lot unresolved.

They’re the first customers to walk into the bakery, and the warm smell of freshly baked pastries is way too delicious for its own good. Sarah gives him an amused nudge when he groans in appreciation while watching one of the employees slide a tray of fresh bear claws and cinnamon rolls into a shiny glass display case. Everything looks so good. Of course, everything at Blue Moon Bakery always did.

This was their thing all through high school: they’d get up at the crack of dawn so they could be at Blue Moon when the first batch of doughnuts came out of the oven. The worn oak booths and the canary yellow Formica counter tops hold many memories for them, such as their first date, awkward and fumbling, and their first kiss, clichéd over a chocolate milk shake. The small café has also witnessed a multitude of their other relationship markers: there had been long conversations over maple bars on some days and long fights after untouched Italian sodas on others. The baked goods staring out at them from the display have watched them break-up and make-up more times than they can count. 

 

“Can I get one of everything?” Derek asks Sarah seriously as they walk back and forth between all the display cases. She cracks a teasing grin and lightly pats his stomach,

“Sure, but don’t complain to me when you feel deathly ill afterwards.” She replies, eyeing one of the chocolate-iced doughnut rings. She steps up to order one, and Derek ribs her about how she ends up ordering the same kind of doughnut every time. Sarah is quick to point out that, as usual, Derek takes forever to decide what doughnut he wants, which he does. Nearly fifteen minutes have gone by since Sarah got her chocolate doughnut, and Derek is still waffling between a Danish and a Boston crème. He finally decides on an oversized apple fritter.

“You only got that because it’s ten times bigger than all the other ones, didn’t you.” Sarah teases as Derek takes a giant bite out of it,

“No shame.” He replies around his mouthful, and Sarah wrangles the fritter out of his hands so she can take a bite too. When her eyebrows shoot up and she licks the corner of her lip to get the glaze off, Derek knows it’s met her approval. He washes the apple-cinnamon goodness down with his black coffee and commandeers her chocolate doughnut to return the favor.

“Which one’s better?” He finally asks. It was an unspoken rule: they never got the same thing as each other, and they always elected a winner between the two. Sarah squints over at his doughnut and purses her lips,

“…You can never go wrong with chocolate.” She reasons, and he gives her a long critical look,

“Yeah, but you can never go wrong with a doughnut that tastes like _apple pie_.” He rebuffs, taking another generous bite.

“Unless you don’t like apple pie.” She points out,

“I’m sure there’s some crazy person out there who doesn’t like chocolate.” He counters. She smiles stubbornly at him and shakes her head,

“Well, I vote chocolate because I think the chances of liking chocolate are far greater than apples.” She says resolutely. Derek chews his apple fritter and watches her carefully as she sips her coffee,

“What if they both share first place?” He suggests, and Sarah looks up at him, puzzled. They’ve never had a tie between doughnuts before, but Derek thinks, maybe it’s time to change things ups. It’s the most trivial thing on his outrageously long list of things to change, but he figures it’s a start.

“You know that’s not really how first place works, right?” She laughs, and Derek shrugs,

“We can both be first-place winners this way.” He replies easily and splits the rest of his apple fritter with her. She stares at him for a long moment, no doubt wondering what’s overcome him, but then she smiles and tears her chocolate doughnut in half. Now they have half of each, and they sit in silence, all too aware of the strange and somber transition that’s begun rolling over them. The look on Derek’s face gets serious as he stares into his coffee cup, and even Sarah realizes the reason for coming out here must not be just for the doughnuts.

“Look, Sarah…” Derek starts, his voice rough. Sarah takes a deep breath and reaches out to take his hand,

“Derek, it’s fine—”

“No, no. It isn’t.” He says quickly, his fingers wrapping around her small hand, “It always goes like this. We get in a fight and you let me off the hook too easy…” He hesitates a moment, swallows down his pride and his fear, “Let me apologize.” He finally says firmly, and the look in Sarah’s eyes when he meets her gaze head-on is pensive and tinged with regret.

Maybe she’s thinking the same thing he is: they’ve been here before, left in the jarring aftermath of a fight, far too often. Despite this truth, it’s clear they’re hanging on to the meager threads still holding their relationship together, perhaps hoping and dreaming that this couldn’t possibly be all they have left to give each other. Denial is bittersweet that way.

“I’m sorry.” Derek says, and the sincerity of his words hits Sarah right in the chest; it’s like the air has been knocked out of her, “I’m sorry for being so selfish and distant and thoughtless. I’m sorry for _everything_.” Derek stares down at her hand in his, lets his thumb slide over her knuckles, “You’ve been there for me since day one and I’ve been repaying you by being such a self-centered ass,” He whispers, and Sarah runs her hand under her eyes and tries hard not to cry,

“I can’t imagine how hard these past years must’ve been for you…” He leans forward to wipe away the tears that escape down her fair skin, “I’ve been such a jerk.” He mumbles, the words almost catching in his throat. Derek never wanted to be this kind of man, never thought it would come to this. Sarah looks so tired and worn down as he brushes his fingers down her cheek. In that moment, he understands the full scope of his neglectful behavior: all the angry years after Cora’s death, all the distance he put between them by resisting her help, all the decisions he’s made without even thinking about how they’d affect her, like joining the Army, like moving to Texas in the middle of her junior year at UCLA, like signing up for another tour after she asked him not to…

When two people have been together for so long it’s hard to imagine life without one or the other, even if life would be better without them. He figures that’s what’s been keeping them hanging on for so long, but sooner or later something’s going to have to give. They can’t keep going on the way they are. Derek realizes he’s walking a fine line, like a tightrope, and it’s only a matter of time before he loses his balance. All he can do is decide which way will cause the least damage after the fall. Right now, he doesn’t know which direction that will be, but his gut is willing to bet it still has nothing to do with marriage.

“I know ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t even come close,” Derek murmurs, and he really does mean it from the bottom of his heart, “And ‘thank you’ isn’t good enough.” He brings her fingers up to his lips, “But _I’m sorry_ for being so unfair to you, and _thank you_ for putting up with a complete idiot like me.” He grins against her palm, and she can’t help but laugh weakly. Her cheeks are still streaked with tears, but her eyes are now dry. She watches him carefully, and he can see she’s grateful for his apology, she knows he’s being genuine. She still looks worn down though, as if she can’t quite shake the many years’ worth of slights and differences between them.

“I’m sorry too, Derek. I really am.” She finally says, her voice trembling. She knows she’s done her fair share of the damage, especially these past couple of months. “Everyone heals in their own time. I shouldn’t have pushed you.” She says softly, “And I didn’t mean what I said yesterday about you running off after a stranger. I made a mistake, and I shouldn’t have left Stiles there alone like I did.” She intertwines their fingers together and looks up at him remorsefully. Derek feels a slight sting at the mention of healing and the greater connotations it has regarding Cora: He knows he hasn’t done any healing since her death, and that’s been the real problem. He knows it and he’s pretty sure Sarah knows it, but he appreciates her gesture nonetheless.

Despite their sincerity, there are injuries still left between them that go unmentioned, unattended. Derek’s thoughtful gesture and Sarah’s apology aren’t quite enough to stitch up the ravine still yawning at their feet, but for now they’re on even ground; they’ve put a Band-Aid on the gaping wound. But at the bottom of everything, Derek realizes that he doesn’t want to acknowledge what he already knows to be the only foolproof solution. For now, he’s content with the progress they’ve made, even though he has no idea what direction they’re progressing in…

# ▲▼▲▼▲▼

Stiles wakes up the next morning feeling surprisingly rested, and when he remembers that his father is dead, it isn’t like a ton of bricks falling on his head and stopping him in his tracks, rendering him incapacitated. It’s more of a deep ache that’s unexpectedly manageable, although Stiles suspects the relief could be temporary, like a tide receding only to eventually come back in again. After all, it still hurts like nothing Stiles has ever experienced before. Sure, it was horrific dealing with the emotional fallout after the altercation with his father, but the prospect of death seems to thoroughly eclipse that wound: Stiles always thought _Maybe someday we’ll be able to make things right. Maybe next year…Maybe the year after…_ But now there’s no chance of that at all, and it leaves Stiles with a grief harder to reconcile with than the pain his father caused while alive.

As Stiles is getting out of the shower he thinks back on last night’s events, and the memory of Derek Hale sitting on the back porch until it was too dark to see leaves a ghost of a shiver on Stiles’ skin. He’s thankful to have someone to talk to, but the desire he feels towards the other man is entirely too overwhelming. Stiles hasn’t felt this way since…maybe ever. He doesn’t remember feeling this way towards Jake, that’s for sure, but he figures that’s because he was experimenting then, trying things out for the first time. This time around, he knows exactly what he wants, he knows exactly what kinds of things the attraction he feels for Derek elicits.

It’s not just physical attraction either, Stiles thinks. Derek is hot as hell _and_ super friendly. Stiles almost wishes Derek weren’t such a nice guy so it would be easier to push the desire away. Stiles tries desperately to rationalize it any way he can: _I had a huge crush on him in high school. That’s all it is. Residual attraction, leftover infatuation, the ghost of desire past. Whatever it is, it’s not real…_

Well, it _feels_ real. Too real.

Fortunately for Stiles, he wants to avoid messy feelings and complicated intimacies like the plague. So, his power to resist temptation currently trumps his desire to jump Derek’s bones. For now, at least. 

Of all the things Stiles wants in life, he’s definitely not interested in a repeat of what happened with Jake, whom Stiles never heard from again after that fateful day. And a string of other failed relationships thereafter serve no other purpose than to put Stiles off of dating for life. He would never admit it, but his parents didn’t just ruin his first time, they ruined every time after that and probably will continue to ruin any other time in the future. But that’s the thing: as far as Stiles is concerned, there will be no next time. He’s not one for flings or one-night stands, but bona fide relationships are also out of the question.  
Stiles decided a long time ago that there are too many uncertain variables in relationships, and he definitely doesn’t have the greatest respect for the notion of love. In his opinion, the payout isn’t worth the risk. Never was and never will be…

 

When Stiles feels physically and emotionally presentable, he texts Scott to let him know he’s coming over, which Scott is definitely more than happy to hear. He takes his time getting to the McCall’s house, but, when he does get there, Cindy is out of the front door before he even pulls up to the curb, without fail.

“Stiles…” She’s right there when he gets out of the car, and the way she says his name is instinctively maternal and singularly compassionate in that way only mothers can be. It makes him all too aware of the pain again, of the literal and metaphorical loss of his own family. She pulls him into her gentle embrace and rubs her hands along his back, sure and comforting.

“I’m so sorry, Stiles.” She murmurs, and her words are truly as heartfelt as any Stiles has heard before, “You shouldn’t have had to find out the way you did,” She pulls away far enough to look him in the eyes, “We are so, _so_ sorry…” She cups his face in her hand, and Stiles can see unshed tears in her eyes. He gives her the most reassuring smile he can muster,

“It’s ok, Cindy. Really…” He knows saying it’s alright isn’t going to do much, but it’s all he can think of, “Like I told Scott before, it doesn’t change the fact that I was going to find out either way…” He tries to dispel the tightness in his throat with a painful swallow. She gives him a long, empathetic look and runs her thumb under his eye, right over the ridge of his cheekbone.

“Oh, poor boy.” She murmurs softly, “That eye doesn’t look so good…” He winces, remembering that he really must look quite a sight with one eye all black and blue,

“It’s already better than it was before,” He assures her and adds a weak chuckle. Just then Scott comes around the front of the car and the alarmed look in his eyes makes a sincere grin break across Stiles’ face,

“Oh my God.” Scott breathes, “Did your _mom_ do that to you?!” He motions to Stiles’ eye just as Cindy whips around to scold him. The amused laughter that rolls out of Stiles’ chest is refreshingly genuine,

“Well, I don’t doubt my mom has a wicked right hook, but, no.” Stiles employs his usual humor in order to try and chase away the tension now lingering between mother and son. Cindy is giving Scott a weary look, and Scott glances between the two a little guiltily. “It was Nick.” Stiles adds after a beat, and Scott’s expression turns a bit embarrassed,

“Oh. That would make more sense, I guess.” He murmurs, and Stiles rolls his eyes. He steps away from Cindy in order to sling his arm around Scott’s shoulder,

“And I missed you…why?” Stiles asks him seriously, and Scott gives him an unimpressed look and yanks him into a bone-crushing hug,

“Because I’m the brother who won’t punch you in the face, that’s why.” Scott thumps him on the back, and Stiles laughs until he feels winded,

“You never had any tact, Scott McCall.” Cindy admonishes tiredly as she herds the boys towards the house. Stiles agrees wholeheartedly and Scott gives them shamefaced glances and mumbles something about being perfect.

When they get into the living room, Frank takes his turn giving Stiles his condolences, and, while Stiles truly does appreciate their apologies and sympathy, he can’t help but feel that he’d rather not even talk about it. He gives them patient smiles and tries to play it off, change the subject. It hurts too much to have anyone other than himself acknowledge the death of his father. The depthless regret and sadness rears its ugly head and stares at him right alongside their empathetic gazes, inescapable and ruthless.

It’s as if the McCalls can sense his discomfort with the topic, so they do what any loving family would: they make him feel at home. Cindy feeds him outrageous amounts of homemade chicken alfredo and chocolate chip cookies, which Stiles is super grateful for. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until Cindy slid a heaping plate in front of him at the kitchen table. He’s surprised by how much better he feels after eating, and Cindy gives him a kind, understanding look when he brings his empty plate around for seconds. Frank and Scott distract him with highlights from the last few baseball games he’s missed, and Allison updates him on the newest developments with the baby,

“We had a checkup the other day,” She says, her hands running over her belly, “and everything looks great! The doctor said the baby’s healthy and _strong_.” She winces around a laugh and Stiles suspects the little booger just kicked her. As if on cue, Allison reaches over and grabs Stiles’ hand to lay on her stomach,

“Here’s your Uncle Stiles,” She croons, “Say hi…” Stiles doesn’t have to wait long before he can feel a flutter of movement under his palm. The baby gives a forceful kick and Stiles nearly recoils in amazement,

“Wow, we have a little soccer player here for sure…” He laughs, and Allison rubs the spot sorely,

“Well, I really wish he’d wait three more months before practicing…” She groans, but the way she glows as she smiles proudly is almost infectious. Stiles if floored by such an intimate view into impending parenthood, and the incredible marvel of a little human life just waiting to make its grand entrance is beyond compare. Stiles also feels like a badass because he’s going to be an _uncle_.

He beams as he thinks about the latest edition to their little family, and the all-consuming warmth he feels as he watches Scott and Allison smile at each other and the way Cindy and Frank gaze so proudly at them almost takes his breath away. He’s amazed once again by immense gratitude for these people who have so lovingly taken him in as one of their own,

“You guys are going to make great parents,” Stiles says to Scott and Allison confidently, and Allison leans forward in her seat, pulls his head towards her, and kisses his forehead,

“And you will make a great uncle.” She smiles at him as she pulls away and he grins crookedly,

“Of course I will.” He replies smoothly, “I’m going to spoil this kid rotten. I hope you know that.” Stiles’ last few words turn into a wheeze as Scott comes around his chair and wraps him in a chokehold,

“If you get him into _any_ of the trouble you and I got into as kids, I will _end_ you.” Scott says dramatically, and Stiles lets out a strangled laugh before Scott finally lets him go,

“If he’s as bright as his father, he won’t need anyone’s help getting into trouble.” Stiles counters and everyone bursts into laughter, except Scott. He rolls his eyes at Stiles and shakes his head,

“I wasn’t the one always coming up with stupid ideas and going off on crazy adventures—Do you remember when we got lost in the woods that one night back in high school because we thought Beacon Hills was infested with _werewolves_? Whose dumb idea was that again…?” Scott exclaims, and the look Stiles has on his face is undeniably guilty. Of the two of them, he had definitely been the mastermind behind all the wild escapades they went on while growing up.

“Werewolves are a _legitimate_ concern.” Stiles replies comically, “And it wasn’t my fault we got lost that night…” He points at Scott, “You were the one who said it would be easy to retrace our steps.” Scott grumbles and shrugs, and Allison pats her fiancé on the arm consolingly,

“And you listened to me.” Scott counters a bit lamely.

“Yeah, okay, that was a mistake.” Stiles grins in amusement, and Scott looks about ready to give up on the conversation altogether,

“Granted we didn’t find any werewolves, it was still kind of fun, right?” Stiles presses, and Scott throws his arms up in frustration,

“I thought we were going to die of hypothermia! We were lost for half the night.” He groans. Allison’s laughter is quick to follow his words,

“I remember the day after that.” She speaks up, “You guys were so miserable and tired at school. Walking zombies.” She says, and Stiles stage whispers that she’s not helping his case.

“Speaking of _zombies_ ,” Scott bursts, “it was also your idea to accept that dare from Isaac and Boyd to spend a night in the cemetery. Do you remember that—”

“They set us up!” Stiles yells in defense, “And it was a _dare!_ You can’t _not_ accept a dare.” It was true Isaac and Boyd had set them up. It was at a time when Isaac had been working for the funeral home and had access to the facilities and equipment. The two had cooked up an intricate scheme to scare Scott and Stiles off with a myriad of bumps in the night that culminated in an actual zombie sighting, which happened to be some freshman Isaac and Boyd paid off to impersonate one just long enough to send their friends screaming from the grounds.

Isaac and Boyd never let them live that one down, especially the way Stiles had backed up over a headstone and fell on his ass before bolting in the opposite direction. Isaac and Boyd also put salt in the wound by letting Scott and Stiles tell the whole school about seeing the undead before revealing that it had all been one huge elaborate joke. Stiles didn’t talk to them for a week after that.

As Scott and Stiles bicker over the memory at the kitchen table, Allison and Scott’s parents only interrupt every now and then in order to tell the guys how ridiculous it was that they even believed for a second that zombies could be real in the first place. Scott and Stiles end the conversation by agreeing to never talk about it again.

 

As the early afternoon passes by, Stiles is grateful for how natural it feels to be here, to be surrounded by Scott and his family and have them treat him like normal. The death of his father and the surrounding shit storm still hovers over his head, and every now and then, when the conversations end and he has a moment to remember everything, that sea of dark emotions comes rolling back in and seizes his chest in an icy grip. It’s always the worst part, remembering what still waits for him outside the pleasant distraction the McCalls provide.

It’s not that Stiles could ever forget that his father is dead, that his mother probably still hates him, that he has unfinished business with Nick, and that he has unfinished business with himself most of all, but when the banter wanes and the pleasantries have run their natural course, all Stiles is left with is that sucking, black void at the back of his mind, waiting patiently for him. It makes him restless, makes him feel trapped in a box ten times too small for all the shit he’s feeling, all the emotions he doesn’t know how to deal with.

Stiles is afraid the unparalleled grief is something that will be with him forever. It’s almost sadistic how he can’t help but think that now that he knows what this kind of pain feels like he can’t imagine life without it. Even if he were in the right head space to tackle the mountain of heartache towering over him, he can’t even begin to fathom how to make it better, how to make the crushing guilt go away, or where to even start. He’s banking on the wavering hope that time will make things easier to manage, if nothing else.

As the hours dwindle on, Stiles feels the gloom crowding in on him, growing stronger and harder to repress. It becomes harder to smile at Scott’s jokes, harder to trade sarcastic remarks with Frank, harder to flirt with Cindy and focus on the names Allison likes for the baby. After a while, he has to take a moment to collect himself, the weight of his father’s death a constant presence in his brain now, like the flaring symptoms of a chronic disease. Stiles excuses himself, giving an apologetic smile as they assure him quietly that it’s ok. He hates how awkward it makes him feel knowing that they must be thinking about how messed up he probably is right now. He knows they love him and always will, but it doesn’t keep the shame he feels away, it doesn’t keep him from feeling weak.

Stiles wanders into the backyard, shutting the glass sliding door silently behind him. He lets a long shaky breath escape his lungs and squeezes his eyes shut. He has a pounding headache and he sees sparks of red behind his eyelids.

“Fuck you, dad.” He whispers angrily, and immediately feels terrible about it. He laces his hands behind his head and scuffs his shoes against the cement under his feet, “I don’t mean it,” He adds, and hates the way he can hear the unshed tears in his voice. _Goddammit, you have no idea how pissed I am with you right now…_ He thinks, livid with sadness, _Why the hell did you have to go and have a_ fucking _heart attack, you son of a bitch…_ Stiles tries desperately to keep them away, but when he feels the wetness of a tear sliding down his cheek, all he can do is wipe furiously at it, feeling helpless. He swallows back a frustrated sob and grits his teeth,

“I don’t mean it,” He whispers again, “but, seriously, _fuck you_.” He almost wishes he could say it to his father’s face, but even in his gut he knows, if given the chance, there’s only one thing he wants to say to his father.

_I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Maybe you don’t even deserve it, but I’m so fucking sorry anyway…_

Stiles feels like there’s a whirlwind whipping around inside him, shredding up his insides, and tearing up his ability to string some thoughts together that might convince him that everything will be alright. Trying to buffer the storm is exhausting and leaves him feeling empty, like a brittle shell left miraculously intact for the time being. Stiles thinks with a sliver of dark amusement that he could very well liken himself to Prometheus right about now: his father’s death and his family’s rejection swoop down every day when he least expects it to once again tear out whatever hope or consolation he might’ve scrounged together after the last assault. And even thought Stiles knows it’s coming, knows what to expect, the pain is so nauseatingly fresh and new every time.

It’s like a fever that’s destined to go unbroken and his only respite are the delusional mirages of forgiveness shimmering in the distance, never real and never attainable. As Stiles paces in the lawn, he feels a nagging hint of that previous desire to escape again. _Escape, escape, escape…_ And fear sings in his belly, deathly constricting and fierce.

He thinks he might start hyperventilating, and he’s almost thankful for the distraction of focusing on breathing in and out and nothing else. He’s biting his lip so hard he thinks he might draw blood, but then a voice interrupts his thoughts and the strangling anxiety suddenly loosens up, diverted by the unexpected interference of something outside the prison of Stiles’ brain.

“Stiles?” It’s Allison in the open doorway, her expression soft and concerned. Stiles spins around to face her, wiping at his cheeks quickly,

“Hey.” He blurts automatically, and then he says it again, more meaningfully and focused. She gives him a long, sympathetic look and steps down carefully into the backyard. He stands quietly, willing the rest of his demons back into the recesses of his mind, and watches as she approaches him and lifts her soft hands to wipe away the rest of his tears. He’s embarrassed, even though he doesn’t need to be, and he takes her hands in his,

“Sorry.” He mumbles, needing to say anything at this point just to keep the silence from feeling so heavy, “I’m sorry, I just—”

“Don’t say you’re sorry.” Allison replies quickly, firmly, “You never have to be sorry for this,” and she pulls her hand away and once more wicks away a stray tear. Stiles nods numbly and clears his throat,

“I know…” And he does, but it’s funny that, even though he knows he has nothing to be sorry for, he still is.

“I was wondering, if you’re feeling up to it, do you want to take me into town to get my dress altered?” Allison asks quietly, a small smile gracing her lips, her eyes gentle. Stiles thinks about saying no, about saying that he wants to be alone. But he really doesn’t want that, and while he loves Scott and his parents, he doesn’t think he can handle all four pairs of eyes watching him right now.

“Ok.” He says, and smiles gratefully. A change of scenery might do him good and help him get distracted again. Allison gives him a reassuring grin and loops her arm through his,

“Ok. I’ll meet you in the driveway in a second. I have to grab my bag and the keys.” She says and ruffles his hair with her free hand. He chuckles and smoothes his hair back down, amused and thankful for her familiar and distracting gestures.

 

Stiles drives Allison into town, and it’s once again easy to make small talk, to reminisce on their childhoods. Stiles humorously takes the blame for the majority of their adolescent shenanigans, of course, and Allison assures him that she wouldn’t have had it any other way.

“Where else would I have gotten my entertainment if not from your guys’ ridiculous and stupid adventures?” She asks seriously, and Stiles laughs as he pulls the car into the parking lot of the bridal boutique and gets out. As he opens her door and helps her out he chuckles,

“You’re welcome, your Majesty.” He snickers, “And they weren’t _all_ stupid.” He adds quickly, pretending to be offended. She raises her eyebrows at him as she grabs up her purse,

“Ninety-nine percent of them were.” She replies seriously. Stiles bobs his head back and forth, acting as if he has to think about it,

“Okay. _Maybe_ ninety-nine percent.” He gives in reluctantly, and she swats him playfully on the arm,

“Trust me on this one.” She says seriously, “Ninety-nine percent.” And he simply rolls his eyes at her as he opens the front door and lets her pass.

The boutique is a suave, modern little establishment with glossy wooden floors, black leather seating and shiny glass tables. There are orchids everywhere and a sea of white gowns against the walls. Stiles instinctively feels out of place here, and when the elegant and prim specialist walks up to them, clicking in her Gucci heels, Stiles gets really nervous. The woman smiles at them through her deep red lipstick and sticks out her hand,

“Hi there, my name is Shelly.” She beams as her eyes rake up Allison first and then down Stiles, “Well, congratulations!” She adds as her eyes track back to Allison’s belly, “What a gorgeous baby such a lovely couple as yourselves must be expecting. How exciting!” She gushes, and Stiles’ eyes widen into saucers. Allison is speechless for a second before she bursts into laughter. The woman looks terribly confused for a long moment before Allison explains,

“We’re not together,” She points between herself and Stiles, who is still dumbfounded by the preposterous idea the lady just spouted, “He’s just a really good friend.”  
 _And gay_ , Stiles wants to add. Babies are great and all, but Stiles definitely doesn’t have any plans to...make one. His snort of laughter is met with a less puzzled but now slightly awkward grin from the bridal specialist.

“Oh, I’m so sorry ...” She stammers, and Allison waves it off, assuring her with a pleasant smile that it’s totally ok. The two then go on to get down to business,

“I talked to a Janessa Lowry on the phone not too long ago about having a dress altered.” Allison explains to Shelly who walks them over to a counter, “I had it shipped out from a boutique in Chicago a couple months ago, and, as you can see,” Allison touches her belly lovingly, “I just need it fitted before the wedding.” Shelly pulls up some files on the computer and the two fill out some paperwork as Stiles walks around the store, ogling skeptically at all the billowing dresses and the ladies milling around them. He gets a couple odd and dirty looks from a few of the women, and he can’t for the life of him understand why.

When Allison comes over to tell him that she’ll be trying on the dress and that she wants him to see it, he looks relieved,

“Some of these ladies are definitely giving me the evil eye…” Stiles informs her in a whisper as they make their way back to the dressing rooms. Allison laughs and takes his arm,

“They might be thinking you’re the husband-to-be, and seeing the bride in her dress before the wedding is a big no-no.” She replies, and Stiles frowns,

“Why can’t they just assume I’m…your brother or something?” He says, exasperated. She turns to him, hands him her coat and her purse, and gives him a long, serious look,

“Because people like to assume the worst.” She replies quietly, and Stiles knows she isn’t just talking about brides and grooms anymore. He takes a deep breath and sighs: it’s too true. His parents assumed the worst of him, he assumed the worst of his parents… And look where everybody ended up. He nods reluctantly, and she gives him a reassuring pat on the arm,

“Besides, we don’t really look alike anyway.” She adds with a teasing smile and he chuckles. After a moment, she steps up closer to him and pulls on the strings of his jacket,

“…Assumptions can always be changed, Stiles.” She says softly, “Don’t give up on that, especially now.” He watches her for a long second before pulling her into a tight hug,

“Thanks, Allison.” He whispers into her hair, and she pulls back out of his embrace with a devilish smirk,

“And if you can’t change what people think, fuck ‘em.” She whispers conspiratorially and slaps him on the ass as she turns back to the fitting rooms,

“Ready to see me in my dress, honey?” She adds, louder this time, and a few bewildered heads swivel their way. Stiles’ cheeks burn bright red as he stares down a few disturbed glares before collapsing into one of the love seats. He shakes his head in amusement and chuckles as Allison’s words sink in.

 _Assumptions can always be changed…_ He wonders if there’s still any hope for him and his mother. After all, he and Nick had been mad at each other for years because of nothing more than stupid assumptions. Maybe he can explain things to her, help her come around and understand he’s still Stiles and always has been. And maybe he can get to a place where he’s not assuming that she’s assuming only the worst. Maybe that way he can muster up enough courage to take the first step and go see her…

Nearly half an hour goes by before Allison comes out of the fitting room again, but when she does, it takes Stiles’ breath away.

“ _Holy shit…_ ” He whispers as a crazy smile blossoms across his lips. “You look _beautiful_ , Allison.” He gets up off his seat and hovers around her with a look of awe. Allison’s dress is stunning. It’s a floor-length gown with a small train, and it’s elegantly sleeveless with a low-cut back. The lacey neck of the dress dips into a deep ‘v’, which helps accentuate her pregnancy tastefully with a swath of pleated material that fans out from its point, right between her breasts. It’s a masterpiece of white silk and delicate lace, and Stiles thinks it makes Allison look like the most beautiful bride in the history of brides, and he definitely tells her as much. Allison looks pleased, but also a bit self-conscious. She runs her hands over the material and gives him a thankful smile.

“When I picked it out in Chicago, I had them leave extra fabric in the waist.” She says, and turns around so Stiles can see where they’ve temporarily pinned it, “I was afraid maybe it wouldn’t look good once the final alterations were made…” She runs her hands over her belly and laughs a bit timidly, “God, I didn’t really realize how _huge_ I’ve gotten.” Stiles watches her looking at herself in the floor-length mirror on the wall, and he sees that her expression is a little pensive, a little worried. With a smile he walks up and takes her hands and places them on her stomach,

“I think the dress is beautiful _because_ you’re so huge.” He says earnestly, and it’s as if the baby hears him because Allison and Stiles both feel a gigantic kick. The two laugh, and Stiles nods, “See, even he agrees.” And Allison beams,

“You know, you always say Scott is the hopeless romantic, Stiles, but you don’t have me fooled.” She says teasingly, and Stiles rolls his eyes with a grin. Allison turns back to the mirror to make sure the measurements for the alterations are comfortable, and the bridal specialist, Shelly, hovers around her anxiously, again driving Stiles to retreat to the love seat, disturbed by the lady’s nervous energy.

“I’d be a nervous wreck too if I had to deal with brides all day.” Allison says when Stiles brings it up as they’re getting into the car afterwards. Stiles thinks about this for a second before agreeing with a generous nod,

“That makes way too much sense.” He concurs and pulls the car out of the parking lot. As they start down main street, Allison points over to Luigi’s Pizza and Pasta with sudden interest,

“Let’s stop and get pizza.” She says excitedly, and Stiles stares at her as if she’s crazy,

“You don’t really like pizza.” He says in confusion,

“Yeah, but you have no idea how good it sounds right now…” She says, and points to her stomach as if that’s the only answer necessary. Stiles pulls a u-turn and shrugs,

“Well, who am I to deny a pregnant woman her weird cravings.” He says simply and Allison gives him a brilliant smile,

“You are a wise man, Stiles, a very wise man.” She sing-songs,

“It’s really pretty straight-forward.” He replies, “If a very pregnant Allison gets what she wants, Stiles avoids being physically harmed.” He reasons and Allison gives him an unimpressed glare,

“ _And_ you get pizza.” She adds after a beat and Stiles smiles,

“And I get pizza. I’m definitely not saying no to that.” He agrees as he gets out of the car and comes around to help her out.

 

Stiles has nearly polished off half of their medium sized pizza before Allison pushes away her third piece, which has only been nibbled on.

“Oh my God, this was such a bad idea.” Allison groans as she leans back in her seat, and Stiles grins around his mouthful of pepperoni,

“And it’s all on you.” He winks. Allison reaches over to punch him in the arm.

“You’re like the annoying brother I never wanted.” She complains with a smirk, and Stiles rolls his eyes,

“Well, in a couple weeks, you’ll be officially stuck with me for the rest of your life.” He says confidently and Allison just gives him a poorly concealed look of amusement,

“I figured as much. Being married to Scott, will, by extension, include you. Do you know how frightening that is?”

“Two husbands for the price of one?” Stiles says comically, “Not a bad deal, if you ask me.”

“No, you know what, maybe we need to find _you_ a husband, Stiles!” Allison replies jokingly and Stiles levels her with a thoroughly unamused look. She giggles at him because she knows exactly how he feels about dating; it’s sort of a low blow, but it’s clear Allison doesn’t mean it as she smiles, goading him. They throw jabs at each other that would otherwise be completely unacceptable if it were anyone else, but they’re always able to come back around easily.

“That’s not funny.” Stiles says,

“It _is_ funny.” Allison counters, and the two stare each other down until Stiles’ lips finally crack in an unwilling grin,

“See, it’s not such a bad idea.” Allison chimes, and the grin slips right off,

“I wasn’t _agreeing_ with you—”

“We’ll find you someone _tall, dark_ , and _handsome_ …” She repeats the cliché not knowing that it immediately brings Derek to Stiles’ mind. _Oh, hell no, that’s not happening…Shitshitshitshit…_ Stiles thinks quickly, and feels his cheeks heat up. Allison’s eyes widen as she watches him,

“You’re blushing!” She exclaims, and Stiles scowls,

“I’m not fucking _blushing_.” He mutters, but Allison is already cracking up,

“You are!” She giggles, “Why are you blushing?” She asks eagerly and Stiles gives her an annoyed glare,

“Honestly, Allison, I’m _not_ blushing.” He says firmly, but it’s not enough to wipe the smile from her face. She watches him curiously for a long time as he avoids her patient gaze by picking the pepperoni off his forgotten pizza and sipping his soda in irritation.

“Ok.” She finally says, “I’m not giving up on this quite yet, but I’m going to let you off easy for now.” And he gives her a relenting glower.

They sit in comfortable silence for a while before Allison gets a bit restless in her chair,

“Ugh, I have to pee. Again.” She says, and Stiles can’t help but chuckle in amusement. As she’s getting up she pinches him and snickers,

“You try having something sit on your bladder for nine months…” She says with a small teasing smile before she makes her way to the restroom, and Stiles returns her grin as he rubs his abused arm,

“I’ll pass, thanks.” He calls after her, and turns to smile out the window. Allison is going to be a mother in less than three months now. The thought of them running around as teenagers, with not a care in the world, is suddenly outshined by the mind-boggling fact that Allison is going to be a _mother_ , and Scott, heaven forbid, is going to be a _father_. Stiles can’t wrap his mind around it, and he’s sure it won’t really hit him until he gets the phone call that Allison’s gone into labor. With this monumental life event practically a blink away, Stiles feels like this is what adulthood is. They were once kids, and now they’re having kids of their own…

Whatever happened in between? He’s not even sure. The only thing he is sure of is that time goes by way too fast…

But when he thinks of little McCall Jr. running around and discovering the world for the first time, Stiles thinks it can’t happen fast enough. And as he watches Allison coming back to the table, her pleasant smile still lingering on her beautiful face, he can’t think of a better woman to be this child’s mother,

“You’re going to be a great mom.” He blurts as she sits back down, and Allison gives him a funny look,

“Thanks?” She laughs, “That was…random.” And Stiles shakes his head,

“Hardly.” He replies, “You’ve already been pregnant for six-and-a-half months!” He hesitates before adding, “I was just thinking about how everything seems to have happened so fast, you know…” He shrugs and glances out the window again, “But I think you’re ready. More than ready.” He gives her a reassuring smile and says again, “You’re going to be a _fantastic_ mother, Allison.” She gives him a knowing smile and takes his hand from across the table,

“Thank you, Stiles.” She whispers, and Stiles can hear the sentiment in her voice, touched, “That really means a lot. I was scared in the beginning, you know…” She pauses for a moment, but continues again, more sure this time, “Even though we decided we wanted a baby, that we were ready for a family, I was still a bit afraid. I thought…maybe I wouldn’t be a good mother. But then I looked at Scott and I knew without a doubt that it would be ok. That we would be ok and our baby would be the best thing to ever happen to us…” Stiles gives her a contemplative smile,

“How did you know…” He asks curiously, “…I mean, without a doubt?” Allison gives him a kind look and her smile is breathtaking,

“I know without a doubt because…Scott brings out the best in me, and I bring out the best in him. I’m so in love with Scott, but I’m also in love with the woman he’s helped me become…” She takes a deep breath, feeling a little bashful, “That’s how I know I’ll be a good mom…” She grins crookedly and shakes her head a bit, “I know it sounds so ridiculously sappy, but that’s how I feel…” Stiles returns her shy smile with a confident one and reassures her that he knows without a doubt that she’ll be a good mother too.

Allison is drinking her water when she notices the clouded expression slide over Stiles’ face. It takes him a while to ask the question now swimming through his brain, but when he does it makes Allison’s heart wrench,

“Look…I know you and Scott will love your child no matter what…” He swallows back his sudden apprehension, “But…what if…” He struggles to put it into words, “…Where do you draw the line, I mean, being married and having a kid…Is one ever more important than the other?” Allison doesn’t really know how to answer; she can’t even begin to fathom the depth of that question and what it really means to Stiles.

“…Oh, Stiles,” She says softly and bites her lip, unsure where to even begin, “I don’t think there should ever have to be a line drawn. I mean, yeah, being a wife and being a mother are two different things…but one shouldn’t ever be more important than the other…” She tries, but Stiles doesn’t look very comforted,

“It’s just…Nick said my mom was torn between me and my dad for years…” He manages to keep the wave of sadness in check, if only for the time being, “He says she didn’t want to be alone in reaching out to me, that she was half of a whole…” He goes on, and Allison can’t help the small frown from her lips as she carefully considers his words.

“…I think it’s understandable that she loves you and your father so much that the rift between you guys probably hurt her more than anything else… But it was cowardly of her to do what she did.” Allison finally replies, and Stiles meets her gaze at the sure tone of her voice, “If she truly wanted to reach out to you, she would have done it whether your father wanted to or not. If they really were two halves of a whole, he’d find a way to live with her trying to make amends with you. He’d find a way to respect her for that because she’s the love of his life and because making things right with her son makes her happy…”

Stiles feels like he might explode, and he doesn’t even care how badly his eyes sting right now. Allison squeezes his hand and tells him it’ll be alright,

“What will make it alright though?” He groans in frustration, “My dad’s dead, and it feels like it can _never_ be alright.” He whispers harshly. Allison gives him a long hard look,

“Stiles, when my mom died, I felt the same way.” He looks up at her, his eyes wide. He had known her mother had died of leukemia when she was a young girl, but he hadn’t been there when it happened. He hadn’t been there when she had to suffer through that and find a way to move on,

“What did you do?” He breathes, desperate for any answer whatsoever, “Just…let time go by? Because that’s all I’ve got to look forward to, Allison, fucking _time_ , and I’m not sure even that will make things ok.” He rants angrily, and Allison waits patiently for him to finish.

“I wish I had a magic answer, Stiles, I really do. But time is the key.” She says quietly, and Stiles looks miserable, “But it’s not the time that heals, Stiles, it’s what you _do_ with the time…” She adds, and he stares at her carefully, digesting her words,

“It might take a while to get back on your feet, and you might not even know how to right now, but the important thing is that you try, is that you keep moving forward. Even if it means crawling, Stiles, because, trust me, it hurts like hell for a long time, and I can’t even imagine how your father’s death must be affecting you because of the relationship you had with him… But it will get better.” She says solemnly, squeezing his hand again, “And, most importantly, you won’t ever be alone.” She whispers, giving him an encouraging smile, “You’ll have us.”

Stiles doesn’t even bother trying to keep the tears away this time, and they fall from his cheeks steadily as he sits silently grateful across from her. The hopeless grief he feels is momentarily overshadowed by the depthless love he has for Allison and for Scott, and his tears are as much ones of sadness as they are of immense gratitude for his best friends.

“Thank you.” He manages after a while, and Allison hands him a huge handful of napkins. He laughs, despite himself, and crumples up a wad of napkins against his eyes,

“Thank you. Again.” He chuckles weakly, his voice rough, and uses more napkins to blow his nose. Allison tells him it’ll be ok and he gives her a broad smile,

“If I keep this up, you’ll have two babies on your hands.” He laughs and Allison rolls her eyes at him with a grin,

“Scott makes three. He’s a big baby too.” She says with a wink and Stiles laughs wholeheartedly,

“I’ll be sure to let him know you think so.” He teases and she gives him a dirty look,

“You do, and you’ll be right, there will only be _two_ babies.” She warns and he puts up his hands in surrender.

Stiles smiles all the way out to the car. And even though talking about his father’s death and his estranged mother hurt like a bitch and brought him to tears, he once again feels like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. As he gets in the driver’s seat, Allison pats his shoulder,

“I’m just sorry you had to find out the way you did and go through that by yourself, Stiles.” Stiles gives a shrug and a heavy sigh,

“What’s done is done, right? No use dwelling on it…”

“Yeah, I know, but I’m sorry anyway.” She says, biting her lip, “If you called one of us, we would’ve been there to go to the house with you…or afterwards when you got home…” She adds, and Stiles can tell she really means it. He gives her a comforting smile,

“It’s ok,” He says lightly, “I mean, I wasn’t really alone anyway.” He says before he can think. She gives him an inquisitive look,

“What do you mean, not alone?” She asks, a quirk to her lips. Stiles is glad he has his sunglasses on because he rolls his eyes and mentally kicks himself for, once again, sticking his foot in his mouth.

“Well, I mean…It’s actually kind of funny.” He laughs a bit awkwardly, “And kind of weird—Actually, it’s not so weird, I guess, considering Sarah was the one who told me my dad was dead…”

“Stiles, you’re not making sense. What happened?” She asks, looking more and more confused. Stiles purses his lips and tries to gather his thoughts.

“I was swimming.” He starts, and really hopes he’s not as bad at lying as he thinks he is. He’s not about to tell her about how he nearly and _unintentionally_ let himself drown, that’s for damn sure. Allison gives him a strange look,

“You were swimming?” She asks dubiously, and he nods,

“I was swimming.” He affirms, “And Derek Hale just happened to stop by.” He adds in a rush, and shrugs as if it’s no big deal. _Which it isn’t_ , he tells himself over and over. Allison’s look of confusion only changes slightly,

“Derek Hale just happened to stop by?”

“Yeah, Derek Hale.” He says nonchalantly, “But I guess he didn’t just _happen_ to come by… He’s engaged to Sarah Beal. Sarah Beal who gave me the worst news of my entire life. And that warranted a visit from Derek Hale. In a nutshell.” He feels like he’s tripping over his own words, and Allison watches him carefully,

“…So, Derek came over to see if you were ok.” Allison says, and it’s as if Stiles can see the wheels in her brain turning.

“Yeah.”

“Just ‘yeah’?” Allison demands, and Stiles gives her an incredulous look,

“…Yeah, just ‘yeah’. What the hell are you…inferring?”

“Everyone knew you had a hardcore crush on Derek Hale in high school.” Allison points out with no shame, and Stiles withers under her direct attack,

“That was back in high school—And not _everyone_ knew. I never even _told_ anyone!” He snaps,

“Everyone knew.”

“Besides, who _didn’t_ have a crush on Derek Hale back then?” Stiles retorts tersely. Allison takes a moment, opens her mouth to rebuff his question, and shuts it again with a snap. She gives him a little nod of surrender, and Stiles can’t help but look smug,

“Besides, again, he came to give me his condolences because my father is dead, not sweep me off my feet.” _Which he didn’t do in any way, shape, or form, and I’m not attracted to him in the least._ Allison gives him a long look and decides to shut her mouth for the time being,

“We just hung out and he lent an ear in order to listen to me bitch and moan about my family.” Stiles says, more seriously now, “It was nice of him.” He adds quietly and wishes the topic of Derek had never come up at all. Allison gives him a knowing look and squeezes his knee,

“Well I’m glad he stopped by so you could talk to someone.” She says and Stiles nods wordlessly. Now he can’t get Derek out of his head, and why does it seem like the more you try not to be attracted to someone, the more attractive they become. _Fuck my life…_ Stiles thinks wryly, _because that’s all the action I’m getting…_

 

Later on that evening, Stiles, Allison, and the McCalls are all lounging around after dinner, doing their own things, when Allison rushes up to Stiles with a thrilled look on her face,

“Derek Hale is the reason why you were blushing earlier!” She whispers excitedly and Stiles slams his palm against his face,

“I was _not_ blushing!” He snaps sotto voce so the others can’t hear him. Frank and Scott are glancing over at the two of them as if they’ve just seen a head-on collision. Luckily, they also look oblivious.

“No blushing happened. Ever.” Stiles says again through gritted teeth. Allison stares smugly at him and smirks,

“Whatever you say, Stiles.” She replies, hands on her hips, and she turns to Scott,

“Hey, Scott.” Allison says casually, “I was telling Stiles earlier that we have to hook him up with a boyfriend.” Stiles gives her a murderous glare, “Don’t you think someone tall, dark, and handsome would be a perfect fit for him?” She asks, and Scott blinks owlishly between the two,

“…Yes?” He says, figuring it’s probably safest to agree with his pregnant fiancée than his best friend at this point. Stiles extends his murderous glare to both of them now.

“No. The only person I’m hooking up with is invisible and breathes no air because he does not exist. And never will.” Stiles says seriously.

“You’ve got to have a brighter outlook on life,” Scott replies, “You’re better looking than you give yourself credit for.” And Stiles rolls up the magazine he’s been reading and throws it at Scott’s head as Allison erupts into laughter. Stiles settles back in his seat and glares at the two for a long while before Scott’s puppy-dog eyes and Allison’s knowing grin finally break him. He laughs at them and isn’t entirely surprised to feel as content with the day as he does. But there is one thing that he’s sure hasn’t changed: Stiles Stilinski is not going to waste his time crushing hard on Derek Hale. Period.

 

Later that night, back at the cabin, Stiles is getting ready for bed when he hears the rattle of his phone buzzing against the wooden top of the night stand. He has his toothbrush jammed in his mouth when he approaches the table a bit warily. He doesn’t recognize the number on the screen, but it only takes him a few seconds to figure out who it is as he begins to read the text.

##### Hey, this is Derek. How’re you doing?

Holy mother of God. Stiles nearly swallows all of the toothpaste in his mouth. The warmth spreading low in his belly is unmistakable and the way anticipation quickens the beat of his heart has him cursing under his breath.

##### Hey, Derek. I’m doing alright, thanks. How about you?

Derek’s response is nearly instantaneous and Stiles wishes he didn’t find that nearly as attractive as he does. _I do like a prompt texter…_ He has to laugh at his own ridiculousness,

##### I’m good. But I realized I left my clothes at your place the other night.

# ▲▲▲▲

_Shit!_ Derek thinks as he sits on the edge of the couch clutching his cell phone, _I should’ve said ‘day’, not ‘night’…_ He seethes. _‘I left my clothes at your place the other_ night’ _—Christ! That sounds so…dirty..._ He runs his hand nervously through his hair and tries to talk himself down from feeling like a complete idiot. He looks at his phone and sees the three little dots pulse in the corner of the screen, indicating Stiles in the process of replying. He runs his palm over his jeans and hates the way his hands have become clammy. The three little dots go away, and Derek feels ten times more ridiculous. He’s about to text Stiles and tell him it’s all good, when Stiles’ reply pops up on Derek’s screen,

##### Oh yeah! Sorry man but i think I left them on the dock… ☹

Derek grins a little and won’t admit that he jumps too fast at the chance to reply. _Fuck my life…_ He thinks hopelessly.

# ▲▲▲▲

Stiles feels really bad about leaving Derek’s clothes out by the lake, but suddenly he realizes what that means! As if on cue, his phone buzzes with Derek’s incoming message:

##### Ha ha, I’m sure they’ll survive. If you’ve got time, I can swing by tomorrow to pick them up.

Stiles sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and then purses them out again. He only has to think about his answer for a second.

##### Yeah, definitely. Whenever works for me.

And he can’t help the stupid smile that spreads over his face when Derek replies,

##### Great. see you tomorrow man.

# ▲▲▲▲

Derek flips his phone over in his hands and lets a long breath escape between his lips. He feels absurd as his impatience mounts, making him anxious and jittery. He stares at the screen of his phone, then up at the ceiling…

##### See you tomorrow.

His eyes flicker down in an instant as his phone vibrates, and as he reads the words he’s floored by the way they make him feel so ridiculously excited. And even as he tries to fight it off, play it down, he can’t help the way he feels so foolishly thrilled by the prospect of seeing Stiles tomorrow.


End file.
